


King's Gambit

by xanderwilde



Series: The Brother I Never Had [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Ace Chemicals, Angst, Angst and Feels, Arkham Asylum, Betrayal, Bombs, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Delusions, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, False Memories, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Enemies, Gang Violence, Gen, Hallucinations, Insanity, Insanity Gas, Laughing Gas, Memories, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Obsessive Behavior, Other, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Stalking, Team Dynamics, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Wayne Manor, kinda goes without saying but spoilers for season 5 lie ahead in case you haven't seen it yet, meaning the new j squad and their team dynamic, starts at the end of season 4 and goes through season 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-07-20 12:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 155,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xanderwilde/pseuds/xanderwilde
Summary: “It’s a chess move, you see. Pawns must be strategically sacrificed in order to achieve the goal. I know that sounds harsh, but think about it. When the goal is so beautiful, what do those pawns matter?” He glanced eagerly over at Bruce, searching for approval.“They matter more than ever. You can’t just let people die to get what you want. You know that, Jeremiah.”His eyes darkened as he gazed out the window, disappointment clouding his pale face. The blueprint in his hand began to crumple as his grip around it tightened. He had been so sure, so very sure that his friend would realize how important this was. For Jeremiah, for the city…For them.His voice was soft when he spoke, but laden with disappointment.“I thought you would understand.”(Part Three of "The Brother I Never Had" series.)





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeere’s part three! 
> 
> Some stuff to know:  
> -This fic starts up right after the previous installment “Monopoly Over Your Mind.” Like, two days after.   
> -If you haven’t read the first two fics in this series, this one probably won’t make as much sense (just a head’s up about that :)  
> -I’ll try to update as frequently as possible, probably every few days, but it might be a bit longer than that once the fall semester starts, so bear with me on that <3  
> -Hope ya like it!!

**Chapter One**

“You cheated.” Jonathan Crane glared over his hand of cards at Jervis Tetch, who was seated on the other side of the barrel currently being used as a table. Water dripped from leaky pipes overhead and the empty warehouse was lit by a sputtering kerosene lamp that barely illuminated their faces. 

“I most certainly did not.” Jervis sounded aggrieved. “How would I cheat in a game of War, anyway?”

“I’m sure you’d find a way.” Jonathan muttered irately, shuffling the cards back into the deck. “You gave me all the low ones on purpose.”

“And exactly _how_ would you expect me to do that? You’re sitting right there, you would have noticed if I manipulated the deck!”

“Oh, shut up, Tetch.” Jonathan rolled his eyes, pulling off the burlap mask he wore and shaking out his tangled hair. “I’m sick of this game anyway.”

“Because you keep losing?” Jervis shot back under his breath. Jonathan threw the cards at him and they flew everywhere, scattering across the oil-stained floor. Jervis glared at him in earnest this time. 

“Look what you’ve done, you’ve ruined them. And that was my only deck.”

“Oh, boohoo, how sad.” Jonathan grumbled, not in the mood for an argument. “What’s the point, anyway? We just sit here and play cards until someone from Arkham finds us or Jerome magically returns from the dead?”

Jervis began picking up the cards, his top hat sliding over his eyes. He pushed it up, annoyed. “I’ve been trying to come up with a plan all night. If you hadn’t insisted on playing this stupid game, I could have thought of something by now.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“So don’t blame me for your boredom.” Jervis sniffed resentfully, smoothing away a spot of grease on one of the cards. “I just need time to figure out what we should do.”

“If Jerome were here, we wouldn’t—”

“Jerome _isn’t_ here.” the man gritted between his teeth, straightening up and slamming the cards back onto the table. “He’s dead. And I doubt we’ll be granted any sort of resurrection, one can’t simply brush off a three-story fall and a fatal gunshot to the abdomen.”

“How do _you_ know what happened?” Jonathan tilted the chair he was sitting on back onto two legs and crossed his arms. Jervis was tempted to kick the chair out from under him. 

“I found a copy of autopsy files from this morning. And saw his brother there too, incidentally. Do you remember him?”

Jonathan snorted. “The creepy kid in that bomb shelter-y maze house? I’m surprised he’s still around. I would’ve left Gotham for good if I had his luck.”

“I suppose you never can tell with those Valeskas.” Jervis shook his head sagely. “Who knows, maybe his brother is more like him than meets the eye?”

“Doubt it, last time we saw him he was crying his eyes out on the floor when Jerome killed his girlfriend or whatever. He’ll probably be hightailing it out of this city as soon as he can. That’d be the smart thing to do, at least.”

“I saw he and Bruce Wayne were the ones Jerome held hostage during that whole…escapade.” Jervis continued, lacing his fingers together. “Do you think they know each other?”

“Who knows.” Jonathan shrugged, disinterested. “The point is, Jerome’s gone and I seriously don’t think it matters what his brother’s choosing to do with his life. It’s not like he’s gonna help _us_ out.”

A new voice spoke from behind them, echoing in the drafty warehouse. “Is that something you would be opposed to?”

Jonathan and Jervis started in surprise, spinning around toward the source of the voice and narrowly avoiding knocking over the kerosene lamp and setting fire to the place . They weren’t prepared for what they saw: Jeremiah Valeska, standing quietly behind them, hands clasped behind his back and eyes fixed on them with an unusual sort of intensity. They all stared at one another in turn, no one knowing what to say to break the silence, until finally Jonathan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the makeshift barrel table as he studied the newcomer with a scrutinizing look.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

Jeremiah blinked, reaching up a hand to adjust his glasses. Jonathan noticed his eyes looked strange…had they been that odd faded color when he’d seen Jeremiah in the bunker the other day? Maybe it was just a trick of the light…the rest of him looked perfectly, pristinely normal. 

Almost _too_ normal. 

“I wanted to speak with you.” Jeremiah shifted back and forth on his feet, the facade of perfection slipping away as uncertainty darted across his face. Jonathan could see instantly that he had no idea what he was doing. Jerome would have made fun of his brother to no end if he could have seen this…

“How did you know where to find us?” Jervis broke in suspiciously, reaching for the pocket watch clipped at his side. Jeremiah looked over at him slowly, his eyes following the movement, and his expression became wary. Jonathan almost laughed…he really _was_ the opposite of Jerome. 

It made him miss their former leader a little bit.

But only a bit, because Jerome _had_ been pretty annoying, he admitted to himself.

“I followed you.” Jeremiah replied to Jervis’s question, keeping a cautious eye on the hypnotist’s watch. “From the GCPD.”

“You saw me there?” the man’s voice rose an octave. “And you didn’t tell Gordon?”

“No. I wanted to talk to you. And I wouldn’t be able to do that very well if you were behind bars.”

Jervis sat back, narrowing his eyes at Jeremiah. “Talk? About what?”

The remaining Valeska glanced over his shoulder as if expecting someone else to be listening in. Jonathan chuckled. “What sort of criminals do you take us for? This place is secure.”

He turned back to them, eyes darting from one to the other. “If I was to offer you an opportunity to work together…” He hesitated at those words, testing them out experimentally as if they had been well-rehearsed up until now, “…what would you say?”

“Work together? With you?” Jervis chortled. “Have you decided to follow in your brother’s footsteps after his death?”

A shadow crossed Jeremiah’s face and a flicker of disapproval flashed in those strange pale eyes magnified behind the glasses he wore. “I have no desire whatsoever to imitate Jerome. More of the opposite of what I want.”

Jervis nodded wisely. “Carving your own path, I see. That’s good. It builds character.”

Jeremiah shot him an irritated look. “Would you accept the offer or not?”

“Depends what you mean by working together.” Jonathan decided to act as spokesman since Jervis seemed more interested in analyzing Jeremiah’s personality rather than a business deal. “Maybe start with a little explanation first?”

The redhead shoved his hands into his pockets, scuffing one heel on the ground as he spoke. “What do you need an explanation for, exactly?”

“For starters, why are you talking to _us?_ You realize, based on the last time we saw you, we aren’t on the greatest terms with each other, right?” Jonathan raised an eyebrow, suddenly suspicious. “You didn’t come here for revenge for your friend Jerome shot, did you? Because we’re armed.” He picked up the burlap mask he’d tossed aside before, aiming the fear toxin dispenser at the newcomer. Jervis followed suit, revealing a derringer he kept hidden up his sleeve for times like these. 

Jeremiah didn’t flinch, but his expression grew a bit more tense. 

“I don’t want revenge,” he began, his voice impressively steady for someone being threatened by two convicted criminal escapees. After what they’d witnessed in the bunker the other day, neither Jonathan nor Jervis had expected such a calm reaction from him. “and I’m _not_ armed, so you have no reason to worry about that.” He disentangled his hands from his pockets, holding them up so they could see he was telling the truth. “I only wanted to know if you’d be interested in my offer.”

“Okay, what’s the offer?” Jonathan asked, curiosity getting the better of him. He really did want to know what this insufferably pretentious copy of Jerome was doing following _them_ around and thinking he could make demands. 

Jeremiah lifted his chin, ignoring the sudden dizziness that rushed through his body as it had been doing sometimes when he was nervous or unsure about something…another unpleasant side effect of the toxin, but one he could control easily enough if he needed to. He’d been able to control _all_ the effects so far, even the sporadic laughter that would sometimes catch in his throat without warning, which just went to prove how Jerome had been such an utter failure. 

Unlike _him._

“I have a plan to make Gotham better.” he said slowly, annoyed at the condescending smiles the other two gave him. “It’s…not a complete plan, not yet, there are still a few things I need to work out…but I have some ideas, and I can promise you that it’ll be something no one in this city will ever forget.”

Jonathan faked a yawn, tossing the fear toxin aside again. “Do you have _any_ idea how many people have said that exact same thing over the years? What makes you any different?”

“Because my plan will work.”

“Strong words coming from a guy who was last seen trying to run away from his brother in his own house because he didn’t think through the plan he’d made.” Jonathan commented drily. Jeremiah’s face flushed. 

“Things have changed. Nothing like that will happen again.”

“Of course you would say that, no one ever believes bad things will happen until they do.” Jervis pointed out. Jeremiah glared, clearly frustrated at the reception his visit was getting.

“It’s not a reflection on every other plan I’ve come up with. I’m resourceful, and Gotham could be completely changed if you just let me work with you.”

“That’s another thing.” Jonathan noted. “Why do you want to work with us? We’re clearly not on the same side. We worked for Jerome.”

“Well, he’s dead now.” There was a sudden coldness in Jeremiah’s eyes. “So you can either continue playing children’s games in abandoned warehouses, or you can make some good use of your time.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I won’t betray you to the police, if that’s what you mean.” Jeremiah said noncommittally. The truth was, he wasn’t sure _why_ he’d gone to these two…he knew they were dangerous criminals, knew that Bruce would probably disapprove of a partnership with them, knew they most likely wouldn’t want to be on his side…but they were powerful in Gotham, they had influence where he didn’t, and Jeremiah didn’t mind blurring the lines of black and white into a little morally obscure but effective grey when it was necessary.

And this _was_ necessary. 

It was, if he wanted to finally bring together everything he’d ever wanted. For himself, for Gotham, for _Bruce…_ this was the only way to make things work out. And he was sure Bruce would understand in the end.

When he saw everything Jeremiah had done for him.

“You sure won’t.” Jonathan’s voice broke thought his thoughts. “Consider yourself lucky if you walk out of here alive.”

Jeremiah’s eye twitched. “You don’t have any reason to kill me.” 

“I could kill you because I wanted to, simple as that.” Jonathan was beginning to get annoyed. He’d expected Jeremiah to be _scared_ of him, and he’d hoped a death threat or two would send the kid scurrying away back to his underground house for good. This wasn’t the time for some rip-off version of Jerome trying to seize the opportunity of his brother’s death to take control of them. “And trust me, that wouldn’t be a very pleasant experience for you.”

“Why exactly did you decide to work for Jerome?” Jeremiah asked suddenly, catching them off guard. They glanced at each other, not sure what to say at first. Jeremiah watched them carefully, standing perfectly still. Finally, Jervis answered.

“I don’t mind admitting that, if it wasn’t for Jerome, we would still be in Arkham.” He gestured at himself and his companion. “And in return for getting us out of there, we helped him with his plan.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Jeremiah’s face, something almost smug creeping into his expression. “Oh, I see. You think it was Jerome who got you out of the asylum.”

Jonathan scowled at him. “Whatever game you’re playing here, it’s not going to work. So I’d suggest getting out of here before I make you.” He got to his feet, approaching Jeremiah slowly, who tensed but didn’t back away. “Understand?”

“Jerome wasn’t responsible for the Arkham escape.” Jeremiah looked at him impassively, not seeming to care that Jonathan was now donning his burlap gas mask. “All he did was follow orders he didn’t know he was being given.”

“Explain.” Jervis said from behind them, and Jonathan spun around on his heel.

“Really? You want him to explain? I say we kick him out of here and be done with it. This is a waste of time.”

“You don’t have anything better to do.” Jervis pointed out. Jonathan groaned long-sufferingly, then turned back to Jeremiah.

“What did you mean by that?”

The smile on his face was still there, taking on a sly edge. For a moment, Jonathan could see the resemblance so clearly that he thought it _was_ Jerome standing there. “Didn’t you think it was a little too convenient, having everything happen so perfectly before the breakout? The old guards being replaced, Jerome suddenly wanting to leave right away…all a little orchestrated, wasn’t it?”

Jonathan stalked even closer, coming eye to eye with Jeremiah, who gazed at him coldly. But beneath the tough exterior, Jonathan could see a flicker of something in his eyes, something he’d seen in Jerome countless times in the past. It was a spark that burned restlessly, never going out, an insatiable whisper of insanity that Jerome had had no trouble flaunting when he wanted to. Jerome had _enjoyed_ telling everyone he was insane, he used it as an intimidation tactic, and had been almost proud of the fact.

But Jeremiah was hiding that spark in his eyes, suppressing it. Jonathan tilted his head. 

He was, admittedly, intrigued.

“So you’re saying the breakout…” He took off the mask again to get a better look at the last surviving Valeska standing in front of him. “…was planned by someone else?” Jeremiah nodded wordlessly and Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up. “You?”

“Surely you had to be at least a little suspicious of how everything went so smoothly.”

“Are you saying,” Jonathan’s hand shot out and latched onto the lapel of Jeremiah’s coat. The latter froze, but remained staunchly unafraid. “ _you’re_ responsible for getting all those people out of Arkham? That was _your_ plan?”

“Well, my original intention was simply for Jerome to escape, but obviously he couldn’t do it without help from his friends.” The last word was derisive, mocking. Jonathan wanted to punch him in the mouth, if he had been the sort to go around punching people. Who did this kid think he was, stalking them to their hideout and then boasting that _he_ had gotten them all out of the asylum? “But yes. By and large, you would never have left Arkham if it wasn’t for me. So if I were you, I’d be grateful.”

“You are dangerously close to getting a taste of this.” Jonathan shoved the mask with the fear toxin dispenser in his face. Jeremiah glanced at it.

“You really think it would affect me? Jerome already left me a little _gift_ of some toxin he created, and clearly it hasn’t done a _thing.”_ He smiled again. Jonathan frowned.

“The laughing gas? You mean he—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jeremiah cut him off before he could say another word, agitation sparking in his eyes. Jonathan reflected that it was nice to see something other than that cool smugness on his face. Jervis, who had been watching silently, stood up.

“So you were the one who led to all of this happening. And now you want us to work for you.”

“It wouldn’t be difficult. I’ll only need help with getting some…inventions…built. I have to procure the right materials and make sure they’re assembled properly, otherwise the plan won’t work. And since you both seem to have some influence in this city…”

“Inventions for what?” Jonathan cut in. 

“I’d prefer to keep the details to myself for now.” Jeremiah said stiffly. “Seeing that I’m not exactly a close acquaintance of yours. And besides, you worked for my brother. I’m fully aware you could plan to double-cross me even if you did accept my offer.”

“Double-crossing’s too much work. But here’s _my_ question.” Jonathan leaned closer. “What happened to you? What made you change?" He looked the redhead up and down. "Was it the laughing gas?”

Jeremiah looked at him contemptuously. “The toxin failed. I’m only doing what I should have done years ago. There’s nothing more to it.”

“Strangely vague.” Jervis commented from behind them. Jeremiah gave him a withering glare.

“If you’re expecting me to be like Jerome, I’m not. We’re completely different, and I suggest you remember that if we work together.”

“First of all,” Jonathan snapped, at his wit’s end, “you had better stop imagining you’re in charge. _You_ came to us to ask for help, not the other way around, and you’re in no position to be making demands. You don’t even know what you’re doing.”

“I know perfectly well—”

“Shut up.” Jonathan did have to admit that he preferred this Valeska over his brother…Jerome had been obnoxiously sure of himself in every situation, and it got a little tiring after a while. It was refreshing to see someone who wasn’t quite as experienced in a life of crime. “I’ll accept the offer, because I’m bored.” And because he wanted a front-row spot to see this kid crash and burn after he tried to make his dreams come true, but there was no point in saying that aloud. “And Jervis will, too.” Jervis looked up, a little displeased that Jonathan was making his decisions for him but not protesting. “We’ll get you the stuff you need for whatever you’re building. But you haven’t told us what we get out of it.”

Jeremiah looked relieved, and Jonathan resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “Payment. As in, money.”

“I don’t want money.”

“Oh.” He paused, at loss for words for a moment, then drew himself back up, straightening his shoulders. “So what do you want?”

“Okay, look.” Jonathan waved away the question impatiently, hit with a flash of sudden inspiration. “You clearly have no clue what you’re doing.” Jeremiah frowned, about to protest, but he was cut off. “I don’t know if you’re trying to be like Jerome, or whatever, but you’re not going to get far like this. You need someone to help you out. So here’s what I’ll do. I’ll help you, and in exchange, you have to tell me what your plan is. Details and all. It’s the only way you’ll succeed, and I’ll get a chance to know what you’re trying to do.” It was a gamble, he knew. Jeremiah’s plan could just as easily be some inconsequential, half-formed scheme that would amount to nothing, but Jonathan _was_ bored, and if, by some stroke of luck, things _did_ work out, then he would have a share in the power. 

And if Jeremiah was telling the truth about the Arkham breakout, there was no denying he had a good head on his shoulders. 

“All right…” the redhead said slowly, mulling over the offer. “But if you try to betray me…”

“Save it. You’re not worth it. If you were someone powerful, I’d consider it. But no one knows who you are, and there’s no point in me trying to mess up your plans. That would just be mean. And I’m never mean without a reason.”

Jeremiah gave him a half-smile. “So it’s a deal?” He looked over at Jervis. “You too?”

“Both of us.” Jonathan supplied, holding out the hand that wasn’t grasping his fear toxin mask. “It’s a deal.”

\+ + + + + + +

“He told me it’s a surprise.” Bruce shrugged, catching Selina’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection from where she was hanging upside down over the foot of his bed. “I have no idea what it’s about.”

“Does that not sound kinda weird to you?” she asked, drumming her heels against the bedspread. “I mean, his brother’s gonna be buried tomorrow, you both just had a life-threatening experience where you could’ve been brutally murdered, and now he wants to give you a surprise? The timing’s a little wack, if you ask me.”

“Well, technically, Jerome’s going to the Arkham research lab,” Bruce began. 

“Where Indian Hill used to be?” She arched an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, but this is all above-board and legal. And their cryogenic preservation program was called off a little while ago on the grounds of malpractice, so there should be no concerns about any…well, you know, the whole coming-back-to-life thing that happened last time.”

“My point still stands. About this surprise thing.” Selina continued after a pause. “It sounds weird to _me.”_

“It’s not like there’s anything to worry about.” He joined her on the edge of the bed, and Selina slid down to the floor, sitting on the ground. Bruce looked down at her. “He probably just needs someone to talk to, you know?”

“He has Ecco.” Selina pointed out, her tone growing slightly defensive, and Bruce looked confused.

“Well, yes, but…”

“I just mean this is _all_ you’ve been doing these past few days.” she interrupted, turning away from him. “You won’t stop talking about Jeremiah, and how you’re worried and whatever and how you feel responsible and all that. Maybe you should just leave him alone for once.” A hint of jealousy began creeping into her tone that Bruce didn’t notice or didn’t understand. Selina would never _admit_ she was jealous…it was stupid to be jealous of your own friend, she told herself…but she couldn’t help feeling a little bitter at how preoccupied Bruce had been lately. After all, Jeremiah could take care of himself, or _should_ be able to, and it wasn’t Bruce’s _job_ to look after him. 

It was getting more than irritating for Selina to hear the topic being brought up over and over again. 

“Sorry.” Bruce said, subdued. “I didn’t realize…”

“Yeah, well, you were.” 

“I said sorry.”

“I know.” She stood up, not bothering to look at him. “I’m gonna go now. There’s a lot of stuff I have to do.”

“Selina, you don’t have to leave.” Bruce got up and began to hurry after her. Selina glanced at him over her shoulder and tried to smile, but it felt too stiff and uncertain.

“I told you, I have stuff to do. Have fun with your surprise, whatever it is.”

Bruce watched her disappear around the corner of the hall, then sighed and turned away, hoping she might come back later when she wasn’t mad at him anymore. He hadn’t realized he’d been so preoccupied lately, but he couldn’t help it. That strange sense of foreboding hadn’t lifted yet, and he still felt uneasy, as if something was going to happen but he didn’t know what. 

He knew it was irrational…Jerome was gone, and he wouldn’t threaten any of them anymore. They were safe from him forever now. And the GCPD had rounded up most of the escapees—Scarecrow and Jervis Tetch were still at large, according to a recent report, but they hadn’t done anything to warrant police attention yet—and the laughing gas toxin that had been in the blimp was safely confiscated and locked away in a lab for analysis. Bruce himself had offered one of Wayne Enterprises’ labs for storage, and the GCPD had accepted…he knew the toxin was kept under lock and key, where no one could get it without authorization, and there was nothing to worry about.

Absolutely nothing.

But things still didn’t feel right.

\+ + + + + +

“Do you think he’ll like it?” Jeremiah asked nervously, glancing over his shoulder at Ecco, who was tracing one of his mazes onto a large sheet of paper, per his request. She looked up immediately at his words, setting down the pen she was holding.

“Like it?” she repeated incredulously, as if such a question was unthinkable. “Of _course_ he’ll like it! It’s beautiful.”

He got up to look over her shoulder, and Ecco smiled up at him, leaning her head back against his chest. Jeremiah stared down at her blankly, then his gaze drifted to the outline she was drawing. “I’m just worried that maybe he’ll think…” He trailed off, shaking his head. He still hadn’t met with Bruce, not since the day Jerome had died, and had only spoken with him once over the phone. In fact, the only time he’d left the house had been the day before, first to go to the GCPD for the autopsy (but he’d lost his nerve at the last minute and hadn’t gone in…he was too afraid Jim Gordon would think he seemed too different and catch on to what had happened with the toxin, and besides, they didn’t really _need_ him anyway, it was just standard procedure) and then to follow Jervis Tetch to the warehouse. He hadn’t planned on speaking with either Tetch or Jonathan Crane so quickly, although he had kept them on his mental radar, knowing they’d been involved in the Arkham breakout. But the opportunity had risen, almost as if fate had _wanted_ him to find them, and he’d seized the opportunity. Jeremiah really was surprised at how readily they’d accepted his offer, although their skepticism hadn’t gone unnoticed, and began to think that maybe this plan could actually work.

As long as Bruce liked it. 

That was what really mattered.

Because all of this…everything he did…Bruce _had_ to like it. He had to see that Jeremiah wasn’t insane _(because I’m not, everyone knows that),_ had to see that this idea really did make sense. And it was best for the both of them.

“When are you going to show it to him?” Ecco asked, and Jeremiah blinked, startled out of his reverie. 

“Soon. Tomorrow. He said he’d meet me at the Wayne Enterprises office, and I’ll explain to him how this will all work.” He reached over her shoulder to pick up the paper she’d been drawing the maze on, his pale eyes scanning the outline thoughtfully. “By the way, do you have the overlay for this?”

Ecco nodded eagerly, getting to her feet and digging through a stack of blueprints until she came up with a somewhat crumpled tracing paper, passing it to Jeremiah. “Your own bona-fide map of this lovely little city.” 

He gave her a small smile, placing the map of Gotham over the maze drawing. “And the instructions for the generators? Where are those?”

She nodded to the opposite wall, where pages of formulas and equations were pinned up. “All ready for you, boss.”

He made a face at that. “Don’t call me boss. We’re not in a mafia movie.”

“Sorry.” 

“I’ve given Crane his instructions to find the pieces I’ll need. His…what does he call it, fear toxin? That should come in handy for him. I doubt he’ll run into trouble.”

“And Mr. Tetch?” she asked.

“Doing his part as well. I imagine it’s quite handy to be a hypnotist. He can get whatever he wants if he’s smart about it.”

“ _You’re_ the one who's smart.” the assistant didn’t hesitate to say. “It’s your plan.”

He gave her an absent pat on the arm as he brushed past, and Ecco beamed. “Yes, I guess it is. But what really matters—”

“Is that Bruce Wayne likes it.” she finished for him, and Jeremiah sighed.

“Right. Don’t interrupt.”

“Sorry.” she said again, turning back to the maze she was drawing. “So, once you’ve told him, how long do we have to wait until things go boom?” Her eyes traveled to the generator on the table.

He pursed his lips. “I think we could use a better phrase than that. You make it sound so _violent._ This isn’t an attack, you know. It’s just the way things need to happen.”

“Of course.” She picked up her pen, hunching over the drawing. “But what will you tell everyone else? The rest of the city, I mean? How will _they_ know what you’re doing?”

“I’m still working on that part.” he said slowly, taking off his glasses to rub his hands over his tired eyes. Ecco’s face twisted in concern.

“You okay, Jeremiah? You’ve been looking kinda pale lately.”

He glared at her self-consciously. His change in appearance hadn’t gone unnoticed by him either…when he’d first seen the way his eyes had altered to the silver color they now were, he’d been horrified. It looked so _unnatural,_ so _not_ normal. He was sure Bruce would notice it, and then he would have to explain about the toxin. And he _was_ paler…it was a slow transformation, but inescapable. He’d hoped at least Ecco wouldn’t be compelled to comment on it, but she did anyway. 

“I’m fine.” The words came out as a hiss, and she flinched away. “There’s nothing wrong with me, understand? Nothing at all. Nothing has changed.”

She nodded, not looking very convinced, but not willing to argue, either. “Okay.”

“And nothing _will_ change.” He was speaking to himself more than her now. “They’ll all see it. They’ll know I’m not like him.”

“You’re not like Jerome.” she hurried to reassure him, thinking it would make him happy to hear such an affirmation. Jeremiah’s expression only grew darker.

“ _I_ know I’m not. I’m talking about _them._ Everyone out there. They’re the ones I have to convince.” He turned to look at the generator, switching it on and watching the blue light turn immediately to red. After a few alterations, he’d found a way to speed up the overloading sequence. It would make things a bit…easier…now that his plans had changed. More efficient. 

He was sure Bruce would be proud of his ingenuity.

At least, that was what he hoped.

Ecco stood behind him. “Uh…Jeremiah?” she murmured as the warning light on the top of the generator began to flash. “Is that gonna…”

He flicked the switch back off and the light turned off as the mechanisms inside began to power down. “Detonate? You really think I would let that happen?”

“Well, it looked like—”

“I am _perfectly in control.”_ he interrupted, eyes flashing. “I always am.”

_That’s what will convince Bruce that this is a good idea. Once he knows I’m in control, once he realizes that this is the best way…_

_That has to be enough to persuade him._

_It has to._

Otherwise, Jeremiah thought unhappily, it would mean Bruce wasn’t prepared to face the truth.

And that would certainly put a bit of a delay on his plans until he was able to show his friend what he needed to see.

What _Jeremiah_ needed him to see.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want the full atmospheric experience for this chapter, listen to "Beautiful Crime" by Tamer because 1. it's basically the characters summed up, 2. It's the only thing I listened to when I was writing this ch, and 3. the song itself slaps. 
> 
> Anyway enjoy the chapter XD

**Chapter Two**

Jeremiah paced back and forth nervously in front of the ground-to-ceiling windows of the Wayne Enterprises top floor. Memories flooded back with every step he took…he remembered how he had stood in this same place once, watching Bruce hold the detonator to the Tetch Virus bomb—ironic how Jeremiah was now working with Tetch, but this situation was _different_ —how things continued to change between them until Jeremiah wasn’t sure what to believe anymore, only knowing that Bruce would come back to him someday because that was what Bruce _always_ did. 

He always came back.

It proved they needed each other. And that was why Jeremiah was going to show him his plan. Show him that Bruce didn’t ever need to leave him anymore, because they were meant for this, this city was just _waiting_ for them to take command of it all. If he had Bruce beside him, they could do anything, and Jeremiah would never be alone again…

His lips curled up into a smile at the thought.

He hoped Bruce wouldn’t jump to conclusions about Jerome’s toxin. That had been his one concern, that his friend might assume _things_ about his sanity if he knew. And now he _would_ know about the toxin…Jeremiah couldn’t bear the thought of Bruce considering him insane. Bruce couldn’t leave him, couldn’t doubt him now. Not when Jeremiah so desperately needed him to have faith in this plan. 

Because it really was for the best.

He looked out the window over the city, eyes darting back and forth as they latched on to the silhouettes of buildings and monuments. His hand closed around the carefully folded blueprint he was holding, the one that showed both the overlaying map of the city and the design of the maze underneath. All he had to do was convince Bruce that this needed to be done—for both their sakes—and then he could truly set about making it a reality. 

_As long as Tetch and Crane are doing their parts._

The two Arkham escapees hadn’t welcomed him very warmly, but Jeremiah didn’t really care. He had no interest in making friends with either of them…they were wanted criminals, after all, merely a means to an end and nothing more. Just because he needed them for his plan didn’t mean he would continue to stoop to their level…he was above that sort of thing.

But in any case, they did their jobs well enough. Jeremiah had given them the instructions to find materials to make more generators, and they had done exactly that, delivering the supplies to the apartment Ecco had rented during the time of the Arkham breakout (it was hard to believe that had all happened so recently…it felt like a billion years ago.) 

This was the final step in the process.

Thinking about it made the nerves flood back worse than before, and he took off his glasses to press a hand to the side of his face, willing away the disorientation and lightheadedness that burned away at the corners of his mind. He felt a anxious laugh rise up in his throat and sucked in a breath, his hands beginning to shake and panic rushing through his thoughts more and more every second…

“Jeremiah?”

He froze at the sound of the voice behind him, then shoved his glasses back onto his face, heart pounding so loudly he was certain it could be heard by anyone nearby. 

_He’ll understand, he has to understand, don’t be scared of this, just explain it and then he’ll see how it all makes sense, he’ll see you’re not crazy…_

Jeremiah turned around slowly, glad that there was no one around because then they would see the uncertainty on his face, and no one was allowed to see that but Bruce.

He didn’t mind letting Bruce see his true emotions. He knew he could trust his friend.

_And you can trust him with this._

_How could he be anything but grateful?_

“Hi, Bruce.” His voice cracked and he almost let a laugh slip, but choked it down in time. _Control it. Control yourself._

A startled look flashed across Bruce’s face, and Jeremiah felt like his ribcage was constricting, crushing his lungs. His friend kept staring at him wordlessly, and he slowly backed away, nervously fiddling with the blueprint in his hands. 

_Please let him understand, please…_

After an agonizingly long silence, Bruce finally spoke.

“You…look different.” he said slowly, as if he was trying to figure out what had changed. But he didn’t sound suspicious, or angry, and Jeremiah found he could breathe again. Why had he doubted Bruce? He always came through, always made things better.

And this wouldn’t change any of it.

Bruce stepped closer, concern sweeping across his features as he studied Jeremiah’s face closely. “Your eyes changed.” His own eyes narrowed worriedly, and Jeremiah felt his breath catch in his throat again. “They’re…”

_You have to trust him._

“Bruce, something…there’s something I need to tell you.” he broke in before his friend’s observations could continue. “Something that happened the other day after…after the thing with Jerome and the laughing gas in the blimp and all that.” He tried not to fidget. There was nothing to be worried about. 

But _Bruce_ was worried, that much was evident. Jeremiah wasn’t sure what to say next, how to convince his friend that everything was all right now. There had to be a way, but nothing would come to mind.

“What did he do?” Bruce asked quietly, and Jeremiah tensed.

“What do you mean?”

“Jerome.” It wasn’t even a question. “He did something to you.”

Jeremiah scratched the back of his neck. “He…”

“Miah.” Bruce stepped closer, and Jeremiah backed further away, avoiding the other boy’s eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Jeremiah mumbled, then cleared his throat. He had to seem confident…he _was_ confident…and Bruce had to see that. “Nothing happened.” he tried again, louder this time. Bruce kept looking at him uncertainly and Jeremiah felt his heart twist. _He’s supposed to believe you._ “He _tried_ to, but he failed.”

“But what _did_ he do? Or try to do.” Bruce half-heartedly tacked on at the end. Jeremiah looked out the window, the evening light reflecting in his silver eyes. 

“I told you, it was nothing. Just some of that toxin he made, the same stuff that was most likely in the blimp, and—”

“The laughing gas?” Bruce interrupted. Jeremiah winced.

“That’s really an inaccurate title for..."

“Jeremiah.” His tone was calm, but it was enough to make his friend shut his mouth immediately, staring at the floor. “Was it the laughing gas?”

_ I'm not crazy, Bruce. _

_ Please believe me. _

“If that’s what you want to call it.” he replied, subdued. “But it didn’t do anything.”

“Didn’t do…” He broke off, his tone heavy with disbelief. “You don’t even look the same!”

He frowned at that. “So it had some superficial effects. So what?”

“How long ago was this?” Bruce asked, nearly reaching out a hand, then stopping himself. Jeremiah’s face fell at the halted gesture.

_He thinks you’re insane._

“The night Jerome...died. He must have left it when he was in the bunker…” His eyes widened when he realized what he’d said and he looked anxiously over at Bruce, who stared back.

“Jerome was in the bunker?” he parroted. “He got inside and you didn’t tell me? You didn’t tell anyone?” His voice grew louder and Jeremiah looked miserable.

“It’s not as if you could have fixed anything.” he mumbled. “Considering…”

“How can I make sure you’re okay if you don’t tell me things? Jeremiah, he could have killed you!”

“I didn't tell you because you made me stay away from you!” Jeremiah interrupted, a mixture of resentment and heartache in his eyes. “You said nothing bad would happen if you left me behind, and even when that turned out to be wrong, I didn’t go back to you because you didn’t _want_ me to! You’re the one who pushed me away!” He felt the familiar burning anger flare up inside him, uncontrollable and dangerous, and he immediately wished he hadn’t spoken. But it was too late now.

Too late for so many things.

“I couldn’t tell you, Bruce. I didn’t have _anyone_ to tell. Because you told me we couldn’t be friends anymore. That we had to be separated.” _And this plan will make sure that never, ever happens again. You won’t leave me, because you can’t._ _You can’t._ “Why would I have told you about _that?”_

Bruce’s eyes were wide and haunted in his face as he began to understand. Guilt clouded his expression, and Jeremiah couldn’t bear to look at it because somehow it made _him_ feel guilty too. Guilty for bringing up this topic in the first place, guilty for not saying anything even when he _couldn’t…_

Why did he always end up being the one who felt bad?

“In any case,” he continued, his voice softer this time, “none of that matters. It hasn’t affected _me_ in any way, and anyway, that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

Bruce sighed, turning away as he crossed his arms. “Jeremiah, I saw what that toxin did to the Wayne Enterprises lab workers who were forced to create it. Everyone who was exposed to it has been hospitalized and doctors are saying it’s impossible to create an antidote. And you’re telling me it did nothing to you?” He followed his friend’s gaze to the window. “You know that can’t be true.”

“I’m stronger than them.” An edge of desperation crept into his tone. “It has done _nothing_ to me. The only change is that I realize now Jerome was destined to fail. And I have no reason to be afraid of him anymore. That’s a _good_ change, Bruce, don’t you see? You make it seem like something bad _has_ to happen, but it’s not going to.”

“It’s not what I want, but it’s reality. And you have to face it.” Bruce argued. “If you were exposed to the toxin, you are going to experience the same effects as everyone else. It’s as simple as that, and it’s not something you can will your way through. It’s designed to take control of you, and—”

“ _I’m_ the one in control!” His voice rose sharply and there was a venomous look in his eyes. Bruce’s heart sank, although he kept his expression as neutral as possible, not wanting to upset his friend more. “I’m not like those people, I _won’t_ be manipulated by that toxin because it _hasn’t done anything_ to me. I don’t see what that’s so hard to understand, it makes perfect sense and you should be able to trust me.” His eyes became sad. “After everything we’ve been through together.”

Bruce didn't know what to say anymore. Jeremiah had always been so loyal toward him to the point of devotion that it was jarring to see his friend dispute the point so vehemently. He seemed defensive, as if he wouldn’t let himself hear anything other than what _he_ wanted to believe.

Which meant a part of him _did_ believe the things Bruce said.

Bruce felt a surge of helpless anger toward Jerome. Even in death, he was still manipulating his brother. Trying to force him into becoming another version of _him_ , tearing Jeremiah down and rebuilding him into something entirely different. Bruce didn’t know how to help him anymore, because he could see in his friend’s eyes that he was too late, that he could no longer pull him back from the edge, because Jerome had pushed him off.

He could only hope Jeremiah would find a way to stop this before he really couldn’t go back. Bruce shuddered.

_What have I done to you?_

“Jeremiah,” he began again, keeping his voice calm. He didn’t want to scare his friend, didn’t want him to think Bruce believed he was truly insane…but he had seen what the toxin could do, and if they were going to find a way to combat it, he had to act fast. “this isn’t about trust. I _do_ trust you, you know that. I’ve always trusted you, and you’ve always been my best friend.” A flicker of hope lit Jeremiah’s eyes then, and Bruce hated himself for letting this happen, hated that he had allowed Jerome to reduce his twin into _this_ when he could have been so much more…

“That’s why I want to help you.” he said softly, reaching out to Jeremiah and laying a hand on his sleeve. The latter looked down, standing stock still, and didn’t say anything. “I want to help you overcome this. For your sake.”

“My sake.” Jeremiah murmured, the light in his eyes fading. He laughed faintly, devoid of any trace of humor, and Bruce looked at him unhappily. “So you think I’ve gone insane.” His voice quivered and his mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “I thought you might.”

“No, not insane.” Bruce tried to reassure him. He hated this, hated seeing his friend lose his rationality, seeing his mind—his greatest strength—break apart. “I only want what’s best for you. If we can get you help…”

Jeremiah finally turned to look at him. ”I didn’t think you would give up on me.” His voice was flat. “I thought I could rely on _you,_ at least.” 

“You can.” Bruce said quickly. “You can, I only want to help you…”

“I don’t need help. I told you, nothing happened. The toxin failed, and Jerome failed, and I’m as sane as I ever was. And it will _always_ be like that.” Bruce could see he believed it completely, and convinced himself to such an extent that arguing would be futile. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice was so quiet that the words were almost impossible to hear. “I’m sorry everything had to happen like this. I thought maybe…” He broke off. There was no point in saying it aloud. They were both thinking it.

_I thought maybe I could protect you this time._

“Regardless of what you may believe,” Jeremiah said, in as cold a tone as he could muster when Bruce was looking at him so regretfully, “I didn’t come here to talk about that. I have something much more important I wanted to show you.”

Bruce decided to drop the subject for now…if he continued to press, Jeremiah might push _him_ away for good. And he couldn’t let that happen, not when his friend needed him more than ever.

Selina’s words echoed in the back of his head.

_He’s not your responsibility._

Bruce wished, for once, he could believe it.

“Okay.” he said finally, drawing a long breath. His friend looked relieved. “What _did_ you want to show me?”

A shy smile crept across Jeremiah’s face, and there was an eager, anxious look in his eyes as he unfurled the blueprint in his hands and passed it to Bruce. “The other day, I…I realized something.” he said, voice hushed. “Y-you’ve told me before that this city needs me, and that I could be so much more if I would just let myself.” He scuffed a foot on the floor, ducking his head. “And I…can’t exactly do that if I stay hidden, right? Now that Jerome’s gone…”

“Of course you don’t have to stay hidden.” Bruce, sensing his apprehension, supplied. “You _can_ do whatever you want now.”

Relief swept across Jeremiah’s face. “You _do_ understand.” he breathed, a genuine smile trembling at the corners of his mouth. “Bruce, I knew you would.”

“Understand what?” he asked gently. Jeremiah took one corner of the blueprint, and Bruce could see the map of the city laying across an expansive maze. He scanned it carefully, not sure what he was supposed to be seeing. Fortunately, Jeremiah seemed more than ready to explain.

“I can’t do it alone. I…I need _you._ Gotham needs you, it needs both of us. This city…” He gestured out the window, “…it’s just waiting. Waiting for us to take control. We could have it _all.”_

Bruce’s brow furrowed slightly. “What are you saying?” he asked slowly. Jeremiah glanced at him tensely, eagerly.

“Don’t you remember? You said it yourself. Back when you told me you needed to protect Gotham.”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with…”

“The city _needs_ you, Bruce. You and me. If we were in command of everything…well, just imagine it. Imagine who we could be, Bruce.” The spark in his eyes was back, and Bruce felt a jolt of unease as a memory surged through the back of his mind.

He’d seen that spark before.

A long, long time ago.

He remembered standing in the kitchen of Wayne Manor, more than three years ago now, remembered when the television had been switched on and the news report had come across the screen as usual. How he hadn’t know what he was about to see, hadn’t expected to be greeted with what he thought was a carbon copy of Jeremiah, except this one was covered in blood and killing GCPD officers as he spoke into the camera, laughing the entire time.

He remembered how he’d known it _wasn’t_ Jeremiah, because there had been a light in the other boy’s eyes that was never in his friend’s…a glimmer of insanity that he didn’t even try to hide, he’d _wanted_ everyone to see it. That was how he’d been so certain it wasn’t Jeremiah, because he knew he would never see that light in his eyes, never allow madness to overcome him with such a casual air. 

And he _hadn’t_ ever seen it in Jeremiah, not once in those three long years. 

Not until now.

Bruce wanted to speak, wanted to put a stop to this. He knew something bad would happen, could see it in the way Jeremiah was looking at him, searching his gaze almost desperately. 

But he could say nothing.

“They _need_ us. Gotham is falling apart. It’s been on the edge for so long, it won’t take much for it to crash and burn irrevocably.” Jeremiah’s voice was perfectly reasonable, perfectly _sane,_ and Bruce wondered if he had imagined that look in his eyes.

He hoped that was the case.

“But we can change all that. You and me, Bruce. I have a plan to make this city the perfect place. The perfect home.” He reached for the blueprint, holding up up parallel to the windows. “Look.”

Bruce stepped closer, staring at the paper. Beneath the outline of the map itself, beneath the maze that curved its way underneath like some giant serpent waiting to strike, he could see faint circles that peppered the drawing here and there, seemingly sporadic in their placement. He narrowed his eyes. “What do those mean?”

Jeremiah glanced sideways at him, lowering the paper. “Do you remember the generator I built?” he asked, sounding almost timid. As if he was worried Bruce _wouldn’t_ remember.

“Of course I do. But what does that have to—”

“I found a way,” Jeremiah was practically shaking with excitement now, “to recalibrate their power sequence. I thought it was a flaw in the system at first, and I spent so long trying to fix it, but then I realized it was going to work perfectly. Just not for the purpose I thought it would.” He studied Bruce’s expression. “And we can use them in my…our…plan.”

“What is this plan, exactly?” the other boy asked slowly, not liking the look on Jeremiah’s face. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but there was something there that made him uneasy. “And how does it involve the generators?”

“You saw the maze underneath the map, right?” When Bruce nodded, Jeremiah gave him a nervous smile. “I spent an entire day designing it. Unless you know the layout by memory, it would be impossible to unravel. Most likely the safest place in the world, if it was built. And Gotham…” He paused, eager laughter threatening to interrupt his words.

“I’m not following.” Bruce looked confused.

“It’s simple. It’s so simple.” Jeremiah spread the map out onto a nearby table. “Remember I said this city is falling apart? That it will destroy itself before too long?”

“Yes.” Bruce didn’t look at the map. He was staring at his friend, whose eyes darted across the drawing in a restless way. 

“Your father taught me a valuable lesson when we built Wayne Plaza.” Bruce tensed at the mention of Thomas Wayne. “He taught me that sometimes, if you want to make something truly beautiful, you must clear away what is already there. You can’t build something up unless you tear down what existed in the first place. Gotham’s a little bit like that, Bruce.” He looked up. “It’s _ugly,_ corrupt…it’s breaking at the seams and it _will_ destroy itself, given time. Violence is a part of its nature. You’ve seen that. Your parents were victims of that violence. You were too, because you were the one who lost them.”

“Why are you bringing my parents into this?” Bruce asked carefully. Jeremiah straightened up.

“To show you what needs to be done. Gotham…” He crossed the room to stand by the window again, clutching the blueprint close to him. “The old Gotham needs to go. Nothing good ever comes from it. That’s why you and I have to take charge.”

“The generators.” Bruce tried to stay on track with what his companion was saying. His unease had only grown, but he didn’t know what to think. He was too confused. “What do the generators have to do with this? And what did you mean when you said you recalibrated them?”

“Oh.” Jeremiah smiled at him proudly. “Those circles on the map. That’s where they will go. I have more being built as we speak. They should be ready soon enough, and once they are, I suppose I’ll… _we’ll_ have to speak to the GCPD about an evacuation until the changes are underway.”

“Evacuation?” Bruce felt cold all of a sudden. He was beginning to understand, and he didn’t want to. “Jeremiah…what do those generators do?”

“We have to tear it down, Bruce.” he repeated. “It’s the only way to build something new.”

The silence was stifling. Bruce couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. His mind filled with a million different thoughts, none of which he could sort out, and he felt like he was drowning. Jeremiah didn’t…he _couldn’t_ believe what he was saying, could he? He had to see the madness of it all, the chaos it would cause…it would be impossible to create a better Gotham like that. This plan was total insanity, and Bruce realized, as his heart grew heavier, that his friend didn’t even realize it.

To Jeremiah, it made perfect, terrible sense.

“They’re bombs.” Bruce finally spoke, his voice breathless and strained. “You’re going to level the city. Build a…”

“A maze.” Jeremiah’s eyes sparkled happily. “I knew you would see it eventually. We’ll be _safe_ there, Bruce, and we can finally take control of Gotham, just like it’s always meant to be…” 

“No.” he interrupted, and Jeremiah’s shoulders tensed. He looked almost scared for a moment, then his expression smoothed out.

“Bruce, please. It makes sense. It’s the _only_ thing that makes sense. I told you, your father was the one who…”

“Don’t talk about my father.” Bruce said sharply. Jeremiah flinched at his tone, confusion filling his eyes. “This isn’t what he would have wanted.”

“It _is._ You have to make way for progress, and that involves destroying what already exists. It’s the only logical way, Bruce, and you told me before that _I_ could help this city. Well, I’m going to, and you’re going to do it with me.”

“People will die, Jeremiah.”

“Call it a king’s gambit.” he shrugged, sounding much too nonchalant. As if he truly didn’t care. Bruce frowned. This wasn’t the Jeremiah he knew…this wasn’t _anyone_ he knew. He felt guiltier than ever…had everything been building up to this all this time and he hadn’t noticed? It was possible…after everything he’d done, all the mistakes he’d made…

Maybe this was all his fault.

_You don’t have a responsibility._

But he _did._

Remembering suddenly that Jeremiah had spoken, he drew a deep breath. “What are you talking about?”

Jeremiah sighed impatiently, gesturing out the window. “King’s gambit.” Seeing Bruce’s expression, he elaborated. “It’s a chess move, you see. You’re the one who taught me that. Don’t you remember that, Bruce?”

Bruce _did_ remember…he remembered them three years ago, much younger than they were now, sitting in the Wayne Manor study on either side of the old chess board. He remembered how Jeremiah had listened with rapt attention to his instructions on how to play the game, because Jeremiah always thought Bruce knew everything, always believed his friend would have the answers to any question.

_How could I_ not _feel responsible?_ he thought almost desperately.

“I think it parallels quite nicely, if you ask me.” Jeremiah continued. “Pawns must be strategically sacrificed in order to achieve the goal. I know that sounds harsh, but think about it. When the goal is so beautiful, what do those pawns matter?” He glanced eagerly over at Bruce, searching for approval.

Searching for answers.

Bruce shook his head. “They matter more than ever. You can’t just let people die to get what you want. You know that, Jeremiah.”

_Do you know that?_

_I know you did, once._

Jeremiah’s eyes darkened as he gazed out the window, disappointment clouding his pale face. The blueprint in his hand began to crumple as his grip around it tightened. He had been so sure, so very sure that his friend would realize how important this was. For Jeremiah, for the city…

For them.

His voice was soft when he spoke, but laden with disappointment.

“I thought you would understand.”

They were both silent.

_I thought I could trust you._

“This plan…” Bruce began, his voice wavering slightly, “Jeremiah, you have to realize there is nothing logical about it.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Maybe you’re just not willing to accept it.”

“There was a time when you never would have even thought of something like this.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s irrational. It only means I understand things better now. I’m stronger than before, Bruce, and I’m willing to do what no one else will.”

“There’s a reason no one else will do something like this. It’s…” Bruce trailed off, and Jeremiah looked at him sharply.

“Insane?” A tremor of anger passed through his frame and Bruce stepped back. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? You think I’ve lost my mind because of the toxin. You think Jerome won, that I wasn’t _strong_ enough to fight it.”

“That’s not it, I…”

“Then what is it? What _are_ you saying? If you believed in me, you would understand. You’d see how important this is. For Gotham, for…for us.” His voice dropped suddenly, became no more than a whisper, and Bruce could see the unguarded fear in his eyes. He tried to speak as reasonably as possible.

“You can’t do this for us, Miah. This isn’t what I want. It’s not what I want for this city, and not what I want for you. I _know_ you could help Gotham, and I still believe in you…I always have…but it can’t be like this. You can’t let people get hurt.”

“Why not? They’ve never done anything for _me.”_

“That’s not how it works. It’s not a reason to let anyone die.”

“Bruce, they’re not _important.”_ He sounded desperate now, and Bruce could almost see the final shreds of his sanity unraveling. He wanted to help his friend, wanted to drag him back from this darkness he was falling into, but Jeremiah didn’t _want_ to be saved anymore. He was the one who didn’t understand, and he wasn’t going to accept Bruce’s help.

_How could you let this happen?_

_How could you?_

“They don’t matter. You _agreed_ Gotham is falling apart, and you have to realize you can’t save it when it’s like this. It _has_ to be destroyed, Bruce. It has to, before we make it into something better.” His voice broke. “I…I wanted you to see…”

“I don’t want to be in control of a city if I helped kill its own people. That’s not the right way to do this.”

“But Bruce, it’s the _only_ way. This is _your_ city, it has to be _beautiful_ for you, because it’s what you deserve, and I could make it like that if you would just understand…”

“No, Jeremiah.” Bruce’s voice was low and decisive, and Jeremiah fell silent. “If this,” he pointed to the blueprint, “is the Gotham you give me, I don’t want it.” He stepped back. “This isn’t how it should be.”

“Bruce…”

“Don’t you realize,” he said before he could stop himself, “that this is exactly what Jerome would have done?”

Jeremiah stared at him, stock-still. 

Bruce regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. He knew it was the worst thing he could have said, but there was no taking it back now. Jeremiah would never forget it, this was the final breaking point, and there was no way to erase any of it. 

They watched each other silently as the last of the evening light shone in through the windows. Bruce wanted to speak, but now he knew it wouldn’t matter if he did. And besides, he didn’t know what he would say.

In the past few moments, he had changed everything.

Jeremiah never tore his horrified gaze away from his companion. The words Bruce had spoken were playing over and over in his head, drowning out everything else. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

_This is what Jerome would have done._

_What Jerome would have done…_

_No, no, that can’t be right, you worked so hard to make sure it would be different, it couldn’t be like Jerome, because you didn’t let him control you, you didn’t let him break you, you’ve become better than him, and this plan is better than him, it’s nothing like what he would have made…_

_But Bruce said…_

“I’m sorry.”

Bruce’s face was taut with regret, his eyes searching Jeremiah’s expression for some sort of clue to fixing all this. He felt so hopelessly lost, so defeated…after all this time, all these years, after everything he’d let his friend go through because he hadn't been careful enough, hadn't been prepared enough...it was all coming back around.

_How could you have ever thought it would be over?_

_It was never meant to be over._

_If anything, this is the beginning._

And somehow, Bruce knew it would be worse than anything Jerome had ever done.

_It’s your fault, your fault, your fault…_

Jeremiah gave him a look that was supposed to be a smile.

“I know.” His voice was a carefully controlled monotone, not revealing a shred of emotion, but his eyes betrayed him. Bruce could see the pain and anger and hatred—for Jerome, because it wasn’t toward him, never toward him, and that was almost worse because he halfway _wanted_ Jeremiah to hate him, it was better than this twisted sort of adoration. 

And he could see the hidden meaning behind his friend’s words, the meaning that he didn't need to speak aloud, because they both understood.

Whether or not they wanted to, they understood.

_But that’s not going to stop me._

“Please don’t do this.” Bruce knew it was useless to argue at this point. But the part of him that wouldn’t let him give up hope pressed on. “For me.” he added with sudden inspiration, and Jeremiah stared at him as if he was out of his mind.

“Bruce, I _told_ you.” He paused to steady his voice back into the emotionless tone it had been before. “ _This_ is for you. Everything…” he held up the blueprint, “it’s all for you.”

“But I don’t _want_ it.”

The conflict in Jeremiah’s eyes faded into a stubborn look. “Well, that’s too bad, because it’s too late to do anything else.” He turned away and started down the stairs, folding up the blueprint as he went.

Bruce wanted to follow him, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to believe this was real…they needed more time, they _had_ to have more time…

_I can’t let him become this._

He stared out the window, the sun setting behind the buildings on the horizon, casting long shadows across the city. Jeremiah’s words repeated themselves in his head over and over.

_Our city._

He shivered, that familiar sense of dread crashing through his senses again, stronger than ever. The same dread he’d been feeling so much in the past few days, building on itself until it couldn’t be ignored anymore.

He finally understood what it meant.

_This wasn’t how anything was supposed to go._

_And it’s because you weren’t in time to stop it._

Jeremiah _couldn’t_ turn into…into this. After Jerome’s final blow, his final effort to drive his brother insane…Bruce couldn’t help but feel it was only the last piece in the puzzle. It wasn’t the only component that had brought everything to this moment.

Just one step in a years-long process.

And now they were finally here, and Bruce hadn’t been prepared at all, and he just wanted to go back, to return to how things used to be, he wanted a chance to do it all over again because then he could prevent what had happened, he could prevent _everything_ bad that had happened.

But he couldn’t go back to the past.

There was only now.

And his best friend, his friend who would do anything for him, who thought Bruce was the most important thing in the world, had lost his mind.

_You’re too late._

Bruce realized he was standing alone now. There was no one else around…it was after work hours in the office building, and Jeremiah had left without even a glance back. One lucid thought worked its way through the numbness of his mind, sharp and painful and _harsh._

_You have to stop him now._

_Before this goes even further._

Slowly, Bruce pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing a number and continuing to stare out the window. The shadows crossed his face, darkening everything but his eyes, which gazed steadily out across the city. 

Across the violence and destruction and ugliness and _darkness_ that was Gotham.

It _was_ a dying city.

But that didn’t mean it deserved to be torn to the ground.

The dial tone sounded in his ear, but Bruce barely heard it. He couldn’t turn his eyes away. _How did this happen?_

He knew how, of course. It had been a long time coming, a slow build-up through the years, and no matter what he did, it would always have come to this.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

And it didn’t make his imminent task any less difficult.

_I never thought things would turn out this way,_ he thought as a voice on the other end of the phone spoke up.

“This is the GCPD, how can I help you?”

Bruce took a deep breath, trying to steel himself for what was to come.

For the one thing he had never been prepared for.

_I wish I could take it all back._

_Everything I’ve done…e_ _verything that’s happened to you…_

_I wish we had a chance to do it all over again._

But they couldn’t. It was too late for them both. The only option was to go forward, and Bruce didn’t want to do that, he didn’t want to face any of this.

_You have no choice._

He lifted his chin, looking out over the city below, and when he spoke, he was surprised at how steady his voice sounded.

How controlled, because right now, he didn’t feel in control.

Not at all.

“I need to speak to Captain Gordon.” His grip tightened around the phone and he felt his heart twist in his chest. 

_I’m so sorry, Jeremiah._

“It’s very urgent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is going to have this "brooding-over-the-city" shtick down to a science by the time he's Batman at this rate haha
> 
> Comments are always welcome! I love to hear what ya think!


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

“Well, this is fantastic.” Jim Gordon gritted between his teeth, slamming the phone down into the receiver so hard that the officer at the desk next to him jumped in surprise. “Just great, I’m so _glad_ we’ve got another homicidal maniac-in-training running around the city. Absolutely what I need today, I thought it was feeling too peaceful around here.” He almost walked straight into Harvey Bullock, who was trying to balance a box of powdered donuts and a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a stack of prison records in the other.

“Do I detect sarcasm?” he asked around a mouthful of donut, following Gordon as the latter stalked into his office, slamming the door behind him. Bullock barely slipped inside in time. “Woah, easy there, I coulda dropped my stuff. This cost me eighteen bucks.” He held up the whiskey.

“Jeremiah Valeska has a plan to bomb the city.” Gordon began rummaging through the desk drawers for his gun and badge, and Bullock stared.

“Boy, you sure got me, Jim. Real funny joke, that one. Thought you said something about bombing the city, ha ha.”

“It’s true.” Gordon checked the chamber of his pistol, slipping the bullets inside. 

“ _Jeremiah_ Valeska? That’s the nice one, right? The one who isn’t a violent psycho?”

“Used to be.” the police captain said shortly, pushing his way past Bullock and out of the office. “Bruce just called and said he showed him a plan to detonate bombs all over the city. Wants to turn it into some sort of maze.” 

“Maze?” the detective echoed, his donuts forgotten as he followed close on Gordon’s heels. “Jim, you’re talking nonsense.”

“Trust me, Harv, I’m just as lost as you are. I thought we were rid of insane Valeskas for good, but apparently…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he pushed his way through the crowd of officers milling around the precinct and stepped outside. The cold winter air swept by and he pulled up the collar of his jacket, slipping his gun into his pocket. “Guess it runs in the family.”

“Well, shit.” Bullock shook his head morosely. “You think he’s serious about it?”

“No idea. I don’t see how he could pull something off on that large a scale at such a short notice, but at this point I’m not taking any chances.” Jim unlocked his car and pulled the door open, tossing the keys inside. Bullock brushed off the powdered sugar on the lapel of his brown leather jacket.

“Where’re you going?”

“Jeremiah’s home. Lucius and I were there the day Jerome died. I’m gonna bring him back and put him in police custody until we figure out what’s going on.”

“You think they’ll send him to Arkham?”

“I don’t know.” Jim sighed. “The whole thing seems too much to believe, and it could be a bluff. This kid’s never done something like this before, but you never know. At least Bruce had the sense to call.”

“What are you gonna do once you reach the, uh, house?” Bullock raised an eyebrow, and Gordon shrugged.

“Hopefully talk to him, try to figure out what this is all about. I don’t know, Harv, I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

“Good luck.” Bullock called as the patrol car pulled into the main road traffic. He sighed, watching Gordon weave his way through the crowded street. “Just what we all need, another Jerome on our hands.”

\+ + + + + + + +

Jeremiah looked up when he heard the motion sensor alarm go off at the front door of his home. He watched with dead eyes as the door slid open and Gordon, who had been standing outside, stepped in. The monitors switched on as they detected someone walking through the halls, and Jeremiah ran a hand somewhat regretfully over the top of one of the screens.

_All this hard work, everything we’ve built, soon to be reduced to nothing._

But he had to.

It was the only way, now.

Now that Bruce had rejected him, his plan, everything. 

_And I thought he would understand. I thought he, of all people, would see how important all this is. He has to learn._

Jeremiah watched as Gordon tried to remember his way through the maze, silver eyes staring attentively. He would have to keep a close eye on the man…he was much more intelligent than he looked. And Jeremiah had to time this perfectly if he wanted to succeed.

It was all for Bruce, he told himself. He had to see that his old life was tying him down, holding him back from who he could become. And in order to go forward, certain things from his past had to be…eliminated. Things that were trying to keep him from seeing his true potential.

Jim Gordon, for one.

Jeremiah glanced over his shoulder at the generator on the middle of the table. It was finally complete, identical in every way to the others he was currently having built by Crane and Tetch’s underground rings of followers that lurked in the underbelly of the city. He stood up, casting another look at the monitors, and picked up the small detonator with the button on top that sat beside the generator. He sighed, almost regretfully.

It seemed a shame, all this. Destruction on such a large scale. He’d never even considered something like this possible until now, but the earlier events of the day had spurred him on. Still, some might even consider it to be a bit overkill. 

Jeremiah’s lips twitched into a smile.

_Overkill. That’s funny._

_Because you’re going to…well, never mind. You’re not a murderer. Not like that._ As soon as the smile had appeared, it was gone, forced off his face self-consciously. No, he couldn’t laugh about this. There was nothing humorous about what he had to do, it was merely necessity. He had to keep focusing on the bigger picture, that was all.

This certainly was not the time for jokes.

He brushed his thumb across the detonator, hovering over the button almost nervously. Never, not in a million years, would he have thought it would have come to this. But he _had_ to do it, he had to, or else Bruce might never let go of who he was now, and Jeremiah might end up alone again. 

_That cannot happen._

_It can never happen._

And so, Captain Gordon had to go.

He straightened up, brushing the wrinkles out of his shirt, and picked up the transmitter that sat on the desk. He gave one final glance around the workshop, memories surging painfully through his mind, and his gaze lingered on the generator for a moment longer. How, he wondered, had everything ended up this way?

What had changed?

_You. You’ve changed. You had to, if you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life cowering in Jerome’s shadow. You had to change, and now you have to bring Bruce with you._

_Otherwise there’s no point to any of this._

_Without Bruce, there’s no point to anything at all._

He stepped out of the workshop, leaving the door open behind him, and began walking slowly down the hall, in the opposite direction that Gordon was arriving.

_Don’t look back._

_You’re stronger than that._

On his part, Gordon was growing more and more concerned by the second. He kept a tight grip on his pistol as he navigated his way through the maze, keeping a wary eye open for any sort of traps that may spring up. Bruce had told him Jeremiah had been sprayed with the insanity gas, and in his mind’s eye he saw the workers at the Wayne Enterprises lab, giggling sporadically with helpless tears running down their faces as they fought to breathe. He’d gone by Gotham General the day before to check on their progress, and had emerged stone-faced once he’d heard there was no hope for an antidote in sight.

If Jerome’s brother had been affected as well…

Gordon had no idea what to expect.

He turned the corner and his shoulders slumped with relief when he saw the door to the workshop. His pace quickened as he strode inside, pistol clutched in both hands, and he looked around. “Jeremiah?”

His voice echoed off the walls, filling the silence of the room. Gordon turned and saw a flicker of movement on the camera monitors, and looked just in time to see the familiar figure of the one remaining Valeska disappear out the front door. He frowned, pausing for a moment.

“What the…”

When the door behind him began to slide shut, Gordon swiveled around and ran toward it, but it closed in place with a firm click of the lock before he could stop it. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at the smooth metal surface, and he backed away, looking for something to pry the door open with.

A voice over a hidden speaker stopped him.

“Hello, Captain Gordon.” It spoke softly, unthreateningly, and Gordon froze, staring around for the source of the voice. He recognized it immediately, had heard it when he, Fox, and Bruce had been in this very room only a few days before, trying to persuade its owner to face death in order to save a crowd of innocent Gothamites. He remembered the way Jeremiah had looked at him as if he was out of his mind, him and Fox both, but when he was looking at Bruce, there was nothing but blind adoration. 

He wondered just how much of this had to do with Bruce Wayne.

“I want you to know,” the voice continued calmly, “that I sincerely apologize for this. I didn’t want it to happen this way, believe me. It would have been so much easier for all of us if he had just understood, but as you can see, that isn’t the case.” There was a spark of anger that broke through the controlled monotone, and Gordon renewed his search for a way to escape the room. He was beginning to feel increasingly uneasy…at first he had brushed off the entire incident Bruce had told him about as something easy enough to manage; Jeremiah was inexperienced in the world of crime, and if he was simply trying to copy his brother, he would have been predictable enough.

But this was something else entirely.

Something Gordon had never seen from Jerome.

This was the work of someone who still believed they were sane.

“Jeremiah?” he called again, wondering if his voice would be picked up by any sort of hidden microphone. Apparently not, because Jeremiah ignored him, continuing on his explanation of what was about to happen. Gordon listening with growing concern.

“You see, I had to find a way to show Bruce the reality he’s been missing.” 

_So this is about Bruce. Shit, I hope the kid knows—_

“And I thought, what was it that happened to _me_ that allowed me to open my eyes? To see how much better I could become? That was the question, because if I could answer it, I could have the key to helping Bruce become the _real_ him. And I finally came to the answer.”

Gordon was only half-listening, currently rummaging through the workshop, trying to find something that would unlock or open the workshop door. But he continued to come up empty-handed.

“Jerome took _everything_ away from me.” Jeremiah continued, his voice shaking slightly. Gordon narrowed his eyes. _You crazy sonofa…_ "He only ever wanted one thing, and that was to see me driven as insane as him. But even though he failed spectacularly in _that_ department,” there was heavy derision in his tone, “he inadvertently showed me something I never realized.”

“No one cares, Valeska.” the police captain muttered under his breath.

“I had to let go of everything I knew in order to become the new me.” Jeremiah concluded, and Gordon paused. “Once I did, I finally understood the _truth._ And Bruce needs…no, he _deserves_ to know the truth, too, and he shouldn’t be hindered by his _friends._ It’s inconsiderate and selfish of anyone who tries to stop him, and I will make sure _nothing_ stands in his way. Which brings us to your situation, detective.”

The generator on the table suddenly began to power up, each of the columns turning a bright, neon blue. Gordon glanced over at it, his eyes darting over the contraption uncertainly, and he wished he had brought Lucius Fox with him. He didn’t have a single idea of how any sort of machines worked, and this was clearly not something that boded well for him.

“I confess you’re a bit of a redundancy, Captain Gordon.” Jeremiah spoke up again. “Technically speaking, as an engineer. My back-up plan in case Bruce decided to refuse my offer.” His tone became pained. “Which, as is now evident to you, he did.”

Gordon could hear the sound of a car engine starting in the background of the sound coming from the speaker, and he tensed. The generator was whirring now, the noise filling the room like a buzzing fly. _What the hell?_

“But in time, he will understand.” Jeremiah sounded as if he was trying to convince himself rather than Gordon. “Once the path is cleared for him, he’ll understand. It’s the darkness, you see, Jim.” Gordon raised an eyebrow at the use of his first name, remembering all the times Jerome had done the same. “The darkness in both of us. We share it, and all I need to do is prove to Bruce that it’s all right to let it grow stronger. That it will _help_ him create a better Gotham.” A faint laugh echoed after his words. 

“Stay away from Bruce Wayne, you sick freak!” Gordon shouted as the sound from the generator grew louder. He knew Jeremiah probably couldn’t hear him, and that it wasn’t helping him to argue, but there was nothing else he could do. 

The blue light began to turn red.

“And so,” Jeremiah concluded with a maddening air of finality, “I’m very sorry, but this means you are no longer needed, Jim. Bruce doesn’t need you anymore, you’re holding him back. And I’m sure the GCPD will get along fine without you. They have in the past, haven't they?”

“You know this makes you a murderer!” Gordon glared at the ceiling, as if Jeremiah was watching him from somewhere else. “You’re no better than your brother!”

“The generator that you are probably looking at right now has been wired to explode once it overheats.” the voice over the speaker explained. “You have about ninety seconds before it reaches detonation. This is the end of the road for you. And you should be _very_ grateful to me, Jim Gordon, because now Bruce will be one step closer to who he needs to be. I won’t let anyone hold him back anymore.”

The speaker cut out abruptly and Gordon stared blankly at the overloading generator. With renewed focus born out of urgency, he ran to the door again, his eye catching a keypad in the corner. He flipped the cover up and his eyes darted over the buttons, labeled with numbers.

_What’s the password, what’s the password, what’s the…_

He ran a hand across his face agitatedly, glancing over his shoulder again.

_That thing’s gonna go off any second._

_You’ve gotta figure out this password…_

He looked around the workshop, searching for some sort of hint as to what it might be. _There’s likely some meaning behind it. It's the sort of thing a Valeska would do._ His gaze fixed itself on the calendar pinned to the wall, the daily boxes completely blank except for one, which had been methodically circled in red ink over and over again. Gordon squinted at the words written inside in impeccably neat printing.

_Bruce’s birthday._

Even with the stress of the moment bearing down on him, he couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. 

_Creep._

Hoping for the best, he punched in the numbers, chewing on his lower lip. There was an alarm on the generator that had begun to ring now, the sound filling up the room. 

The door slid open.

Without a second though, Gordon slipped out and began sprinting down the hall, mumbling the directions out of the maze under his breath. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could still hear the generator…no, _bomb…_ preparing to detonate in the distance. 

_Keep going, keep going, keep going._

_You’ve got to get to Bruce before that maniac does._

_You’ve got to stop him._

He turned the corner, exhaling sharply in relief when he saw the exit sign, and raced toward it with a final burst of energy.

_You can’t stop n—_

His eyes closed involuntarily and the gun flew from his hand as the bunker exploded, the walls crumbling around him with a collective, deafening crack and smoke filling the air so thickly that he couldn’t think, breathe, or move.

Gordon collapsed to the floor, automatically shielding his neck with interlocked hands, holding his breath as the explosion raged around him, flames licking up amid the smoke and rubble and dust that clouded everything he could see.

Amid it all, he thought he heard laughter rising about the noise of the destruction.

\+ + + + + + + 

Bruce paced back and forth in the study, staring at nothing as the minutes ticked by. Time seemed to be stretching into an agonizingly long eternity, although it had only been half an hour since he had spoken with Gordon on the phone. 

Half an hour since he had been at Wayne Enterprises and everything had fallen apart.

Half an hour since his friend, his _best_ friend, the one he’d promised to protect, had broken down into shattered remains of who had once been, and Bruce had realized there was no going back. 

Gordon had told him on the phone to stay away from the bunker, and even when Bruce had argued, said he needed to find Jeremiah, needed to find a way to reverse all this, the police captain remained firm. He told Bruce that if he tried to look for his friend or went to the bunker, he would be placed under police protection until the situation was cleared up. Once he was in control of the situation, he promised, he could allow involvement on Bruce’s part, but not until then.

Bruce couldn’t come up with an argument that would persuade Gordon to see things his way, so he’d reluctantly returned to the manor, a million emotions crowding his mind as he tried to sort out what had happened and how he could prevent anything more from happening.

Alfred didn’t know about any of it yet, and when he’d asked Bruce what he’d done at Wayne Enterprises, the latter hadn’t answered him. The butler had sensed something was wrong, but he left Bruce to his own devices for the time being, waiting for the opportune moment to ask the necessary questions.

Bruce almost wished he had. He hadn’t been prepared for any of this, even after everything that had happened with Jerome, and had no idea what to do. He wanted it all to be some strangely complicated dream, a nightmare he could wake up from and forget about the next day, but as time stretched on and on, he began to realize, with a creeping sense of dread and finality, that this wasn’t going away.

It was real.

There was a rustle in the curtains and Bruce turned around to see Selina step inside from the balcony. She took one look at his face and frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

_What’s wrong? What_ isn’t _wrong is a better question?_

Bruce realized with crushing despair that he would have to tell her. 

_We can never go back to how things used to be._

All the times he could have stopped this from happening…all the warning signs he’d ignored because he didn’t _want_ to see them…he’d had so many chances, _so_ many chances to prevent the inevitable, but he never had. 

And now it had come to this.

“Bruce.” Selina interrupted his thoughts, concern on her face now as she came closer. “Did something happen?”

He couldn’t look at her, and his eyes strayed to the untouched chess board on the table. Jeremiah’s words came back to him.

_“Call it a king’s gambit. It’s a chess move, you’re the one who taught it to me.”_

_You’re the one._

_You did this._

He sat down on the edge of the couch, picking up one of the knights and turning it over in his hand. Selina joined him, studying his face with wide eyes.

“C’mon, tell me. I know something’s wrong, I can see it. Is it really bad?”

“I was too late.” Bruce said softly, putting the knight back onto the board. “I thought everything would work out eventually, but I was wrong and it’s too late now, _I’m_ too late.” His voice trembled. Selina leaned closer.

“What are you talking about? Too late for what?”

“To help him.” He finally looked at her slowly, as if just seeing her for the first time. There was something new in his expression…a shadow of hopelessness tinging his dark eyes. Selina had only ever seen it once before, back when they didn't even know each other yet. She’d seen it in Bruce’s eyes when he had kneeled in that alley more than four years ago, amid the blood and the broken strand of pearls and his parents’ dead bodies.

She never thought she would see it again.

“Help who?”

“Jeremiah.”

Selina drew her lips into a narrow line. “What did he do?”  
“It wasn’t something _he_ did, it wasn’t his fault…” Bruce buried his face in his hands. “It was me, all me, I should’ve paid attention, should’ve noticed things were going wrong…”

“Bruce.” She caught one of his hands between her own. “You can’t control everything he does. Whatever he did, it doesn’t have to be on you. It doesn’t have to be something _you_ should have fixed. That’s up to Jeremiah, no matter what, because you _aren’t_ in control of him. You can try to help him, but if he makes a decision, that’s up to _him.”_

“He wants to destroy Gotham.” Bruce said tonelessly. Selina stared.

_“What?”_

“I…” He shook his head slowly, looking away again. “It was the laughing gas. Jerome’s toxin he created. I think it drove him…Jeremiah…insane.” His words trailed off miserably, and Selina watched him silently for a long moment. She seemed to be trying to conjure up the right thing to say, and when she did speak, her voice was quieter than usual.

“Bruce, you know it wasn’t just that.”

His head jerked up and the look in his eyes was almost defensive. “What?”

“It wasn’t just the toxin that did it. It was more than that.”

He scowled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Selina sighed. “Bruce, come on. Don’t try to pretend you don’t know. This wasn’t something that happened all of a sudden.”

He got to his feet, looking down at her. She could see he was trying to hide the understanding in his eyes, knew he was trying to remain in denial as long as he could. It was easier that way. “Jerome wanted to drive him insane. And that’s what the toxin did. It’s as simple as that, and I’m not sure what you’re trying to hint at by saying this _wasn’t all of a sudden.”_

“Jerome _did_ drive him insane.” Selina stood up as well. “But it was long before any of this. It’s been going on for much longer."

“You don’t know that.”

“We _both_ do.” she shot back. “Jeremiah does too. But you…the both of you…just refuse to accept it. Because then you’ll have to admit Jerome won. And he’s been winning for three whole years. Longer, maybe. Possibly their entire lives. And there was never anything anyone could do about it.”

“That’s not true.” Bruce said staunchly. “Jerome didn’t win, and he won’t win this, either. I’ll find a way to fix it.”

“You can’t, Bruce.” she argued. “Don’t you realize how long this has been going on? I mean, jeez, he’s been practically hallucinating his brother every day ever since he died the _first_ time, you’ve gotta know _that.”_ Bruce twisted his mouth to the side. “And he was so paranoid Jerome would find him that he lived in an _underground house_ for three whole years. Bruce, that’s not _right._ It’s not sane.”

“First of all, he wasn’t _hallucinating_ anything.” Bruce said sharply. “I know he—”

“You can’t keep hiding from the truth anymore!” Selina interrupted. “Look, I know you want to keep denying that anything is wrong…that anything _has_ been wrong for years…but it’s gotten out of hand! You can’t keep protecting someone who wants to destroy the city.”

“Selina, you’re his friend too!”

_You’re his friend too._

_Right?_

She hesitated, remembering the way Jeremiah had looked at her the last time they’d seen each other. 

Remembered the darkness in his eyes. 

She realized now what it meant. Realized she should have known a long time ago. This had been a long time coming, too. 

They weren’t friends anymore.

If she didn’t know any better, Selina thought, she would say he hated her.

Her heart sank at the realization, but she wasn’t surprised. Somewhere, in the back of her head, she had known for a while that it might end up like this. And the entire situation with Tabitha…

“I don’t know if I would call it friends.” she said slowly, catching the confusion on Bruce’s face as she looked sideways at him. “He…let’s say we’ve grown apart. And I’m not so blinded by denial that I can’t admit he’s been losing his mind for a long while. There isn’t any way for you to go back anymore. You _can’t_ protect him any longer.”

Bruce stared at her, unbelieving. “You just want to give up on him? Just like that?”

“No, not _just like that,_ Bruce. And I didn’t say give up on him. I only said you’re not seeing what’s right in front of your face. If you don’t realize that, then he’ll drag you down with him, it’s what he would want, isn’t it? He’s obsessed with you, Bruce, whether you like it or not, and if he’s really lost it, if he’s become as insane as his brother, he won’t stop until he gets what he wants.”

“Jeremiah is _nothing_ like—” Bruce began, then was interrupted by a ground-shaking explosion outside the house. They both spun around, running to the window and staring out with wide eyes at the giant plume of smoke and flames that billowed up from the ground over the woods. The sound was reverberating all around them still, and they could see there was debris mixed with the smoke, propelled into the air with the force of the blast.

Alfred barged in the door of the study, immediately following their collective gazes to the sight outside. “What the bloody hell…” he began, and Bruce froze as sudden, horrified realization swept over him.

“That’s…” he began, his voice no louder than a whisper. Selina tore her eyes away from the window to look at him. They were both silent for a long moment, and she could see he was beginning to understand her words now, beginning to accept them because he had no other choice.

He couldn’t hide from this anymore.

No one could.

“That’s the bunker.” Bruce finally managed to say, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes were wide and hollow, and Selina could tell he knew more than what he said aloud. She stepped closer to him, tentative. 

“Is he in there?” she asked softly, not sure what to feel. Or what to say. Everything suddenly seemed very difficult to comprehend, and she wasn’t sure how they—any of them—had gotten to this point.

It seemed like only yesterday they had all been friends…

Everything had been _normal…_

“No.” Bruce’s voice was toneless, and Selina could see the shock on his face. He drew in a long, shuddering breath, unable to look away from the destruction that clouded the skyline in a giant smoky mass. “No, he wasn’t in there.”

Selina nodded slowly, hand traveling to the whip at her side. “Then we need to find him. Before anything else—”

“But Jim Gordon was.” Bruce finished, and Selina froze, gaze darting back to the site of the explosion. She suddenly felt very cold.

“You mean…” There wasn’t any right thing to say. They both knew what was happening. Alfred, who hadn’t heard any of it yet, was standing in the doorway, more confused than ever.

Bruce turned away slowly, running both hands through his hair and moving to sit down on the couch. His expression blank, he leaned forward to pick up a chess pawn, nerveless fingers closing over it as he stared straight ahead at the wall.

_It’s too late._

_It’s too late for everyone._

_\+ + + + + + +_

Jeremiah watched the smoke and dust begin to settle as he stood alongside Ecco on the crowded Gotham street, where every other passer-by had stopped to stare at the explosion in the distance. He tucked the detonator back into his pocket, sighing as he turned away.

Ecco followed close behind. “What’s wrong, boss?”

He stopped, rolling his eyes when she walked straight into his back. “I told you not to call me that. It’s inaccurate as well, since you’re not technically my assistant anymore.”

“You know I don’t need to be paid to spend time with you.” She elbowed him in the sideplayfully and Jeremiah gave her a scathing glance. 

“This isn’t the time for jokes. Jim Gordon is dead, and Bruce will certainly be very upset about it. I would never presume to be happy when _he’s_ not.”

Ecco made a face. “So let him stew for a bit. Think he’ll come round soon enough?”

“Only time will tell.” He began walking with no hurry whatsoever back toward the apartment building where they had set up shop making the generators. As a show of good faith, Jeremiah had invited Tetch and Crane to stay in the apartment with him and Ecco, and the two Arkham escapees had readily accepted, not because they had any desire to continue working with him, but because it was a better option than cold abandoned warehouses.

“What if he doesn’t?” Ecco asked worriedly, holding the back door to the apartment complex open then following Jeremiah inside. “I mean, what if all this does is make him mad at you?”

She didn’t see the flash of panic that crossed his face at her remark, he hid it so quickly that it registered as little more than a twitch. “The plan isn’t completed yet. That was just step one. We… _I_ need to rid him of the people and things holding him back. That’s why he won’t join me, is because he feels an obligation to be what _they_ want him to be. Once they’re gone…” He trailed off.

“Then he’ll join us.” Ecco supplied from behind him. Jeremiah smiled faintly.

“And he and I will rule Gotham together.”

_Because we have to stay together, Bruce._

_You’re the only thing I have left._

_Which means I can never let you go._

\+ + + + + + + 

“It is one. O’clock. In the morning.” Jonathan slouched into the cramped kitchen of the dimly lit apartment, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and looking very displeased. “I know you think you’re better than everyone, but could you _please_ take into consideration that _some_ of us enjoy sleep in more than just theory?”

Jeremiah looked up, heavy-eyed, from where he was working on one of the generator-bombs, setting aside the wrench he was holding and giving Jonathan a cold stare. “What am I doing that you could possibly find to complain about?”

“The light.” Jonathan pointed to said offending light, which was a desk lamp with a single bulb that barely illuminated anything. “It’s keeping me awake.”

“You’re telling me you can see it from all the way in there?” He pointed to the bedroom, door closed tightly shut.

“I have sensitive eyes.”

“Then put on your stupid mask and block it out.” Jeremiah retorted, clearly not in the mood for a conversation. “I’m sure you had worse in Arkham.”

He glared at Jeremiah from beneath his mop of tangled hair. “You seem to be under the impression that you’re in charge here. Maybe I should remind you that you are _not._ Nor do any of us have to take orders from you.”

“I never said you did.” Jeremiah didn’t want to talk right now. He was still horribly disappointed at Bruce’s rejection of his plan, and was worried his friend might be upset over Jim Gordon. Of course, he knew that killing… _getting rid_ of Gordon, yes, that was better…had been necessary for Bruce to begin to understand the truth, but Jeremiah hated to think that Bruce was sad about it. He didn’t _want_ to hurt him, he only wanted him to see how much more he could become if he had the chance.

And so Gordon had to go.

It was strange to think it had all happened within the past twenty-four hours. Time had seemed to blur into an immeasurable mess recently, or maybe it had just become more difficult for Jeremiah to focus. Those damn side effects of the toxin were taking a toll on him, and not being in control bothered him to no end. He hated feeling helpless, especially if he knew it was because of Jerome. 

He was so tired of his brother being better than him.

Jonathan petulantly knocked the wrench off the table and Jeremiah picked it up without argument. The former frowned…it wasn’t as fun to antagonize the kid when he wasn’t going to react. Jonathan liked to see how many buttons he could push on a person’s psyche before they snapped, but Jeremiah seemed so preoccupied with his plan that he didn’t have time for that. 

“What is it you want from me, Crane?” he asked tiredly, looking up and staring at the Arkham escapee with exhausted eyes behind his glasses. Jonathan could see shadows so dark they looked like bruises under his eyes, and the way his face was pale not just from the toxin, but because he had barely remembered to eat or sleep in these past few days, he was so thoroughly consumed with this task involving Bruce Wayne.

Jonathan sighed, turning to rummage through the freezer and emerging with a half-empty container of ice cream. He retreated to the other side of the table, spoon in hand, and looked over at the generator with interest.

“So. Wayne kid. Mazes. Bombs. You being a control freak. Walk me through all this.” he said, resting his elbows on the table. Jeremiah blinked owlishly at him, very clearly on the verge of either falling asleep in the middle of his work or straight-up passing out. Jonathan rolled his eyes. “You promised me you’d explain your plan if Tetch and I helped you.”  
“Oh.” Jeremiah turned back to the generator, twisting a long wire around one of the two switches that rose up out of the top. His hands were trembling, Jonathan noticed, and after four failed attempts to successfully get the wire in place, he gave up, leaning back in his chair and letting his half-awake gaze travel over to his new companion. “It doesn’t matter what it was. I have to change it.”

“Why?” Jonathan asked between bites of ice cream. Jeremiah rested his chin in his hands, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment as he replied.

“Bruce didn’t want to do it.”

“ _Do it?_ ” Jonathan parroted. “You have to be more specific, you know—”

“The plan.” Jeremiah interrupted, exasperated. He knew Jonathan was just trying to annoy him at this point, testing him to see how easily discouraged he would be. “Ruling Gotham together. He didn’t understand.”

“So,” Jonathan pointed the spoon at the heavy-eyed redhead. “What’re you going to do about that?”

“I told you, I had to change it.” Jeremiah halfheartedly turned back to tinkering with the partly-built bomb. “I have to make him realize who he needs to be. Then I can continue with this part.” He laid a hand on the top of the contraption.

“Why won’t he do what you want? Billionaire boy doesn’t like the idea of knocking down buildings or whatever?” He stopped when he saw the look on Jeremiah’s face as the other boy stared at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

Jeremiah didn’t hear him. He didn’t even realize he was in the apartment anymore. Jonathan’s words had propelled his thoughts back to memories he’d tried to forget, memories of when this had all began.

The charity ball…pressed close to Bruce in an effort to hide from the hawk-like eyes that stared down at the audience threateningly, identical to Jeremiah’s own eyes in every way, and how he’d _hated_ the thought…

_“What we’re doing is bringing billionaire boy up here for all to see!”_

Jerome looking at him, noticing his brother for the first time…

_“Well, this is very interesting. What a pleasant surprise.”_

The both of them not knowing that it was only the beginning. The beginning of three long, tormented years, helplessly careening closer and closer to madness, with nothing to stop him but Bruce, and now Bruce had given up on him, he didn’t understand him anymore, he thought he was crazy, after everything they had been through together…

A small, tortured laugh escaped him.

It wasn’t fair, Bruce _had_ to trust him, had to see things his way…

The plan made perfect sense, it was completely logical, completely rational. _Nothing_ about it sounded insane. And it was all _true._ Gotham was ready to be destroyed. 

It _had_ to be.

_“Hurry up, Bruce, we don’t have all night.”_

Jerome was staring at him still, and even if he didn’t speak the words aloud, Jeremiah understood. He always had, that was the worst part about having a twin. They knew each other’s thoughts, they could tell when the other was lying, or telling the truth, or scheming something…there was never any way to hide.

Jeremiah had hated it.

_“You’re not the only one I want to have fun with toni—”_

“Valeska.” Jonathan’s voice cut through his thoughts sharply, coldly, and Jeremiah almost sobbed in relief. 

_Control it, stay in control._

_Don’t let Jerome take charge._

He blinked, his eyes going back into focus, the memories fading away to the back of his mind where they were supposed to be. It was too painful to bring them back, it only made him think of what everything could have been like if Jerome never had found him.

Never found either of them.

Everything could have been different. Better. But now he had to work with what he had.

“Get up.” Jonathan stalked around the table and roughly pulled Jeremiah to his feet. The latter fumbled with the screwdriver he was holding, trying to protest.

“I have to finish building—”

“No, if you do that, you’re going to faceplant into a pile of electrical wires and die.” Jonathan interrupted, dragging the other boy to the duvet couch, which hadn’t been slept in once during their three days of living in the apartment. “If you don’t go to sleep, I will personally punch you in the face until you lose consciousness, because that seems like it’s the only way to get you to rest.”

“Why do you care?” Jeremiah argued uselessly, looking back at the generator. Jonathan scoffed.

“Care? I don’t. This is strictly in my own self interest. Won’t get far if the _fearless leader_ can’t keep his eyes open.”

“Thought you said I wasn’t the leader.” he mumbled, nearly incoherent.

“Fine. The guy building the bombs, then.”

“But Bruce…”

“Shut. Up.” Jonathan gritted. “Bruce Wayne will still be here in the morning. So will Gotham. So will everyone. So just…” He shoed him away impatiently. “quit it and reflect on the benefits of half a good night’s sleep.” Depositing the barely-conscious redhead on the couch, he turned away to go back to bed. “And if I see you turn that light back on,” he called over his shoulder, “consider all collaborations off.”

“Fine.” Jeremiah buried his face in the spare pillow Jonathan had thrown at him, unwilling to let his project go untouched for more than an hour at a time, but knowing his companion was right. He was wearing himself into the ground with this plan, everything he had was fully focused on it and he didn’t have _time_ for anything else. 

_But you have to remember you’re only human still._

_Don’t fall for any of those tricks of the mind. The ones that made Jerome go insane. He didn’t follow the rules, and that was what made him who he was._

_You don’t have to do that._

_You don't have to be like him._

And besides, he thought as his eyes fell shut again and he drifted off to sleep, if he wanted to prove the truth to Bruce, he would need full possession of his mental capabilities.

Because that was still the most important thing he had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Reluctant Mom Jonathan Crane is my favorite Jonathan Crane, can you tell?)


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a stupid long chapter and a lot happens in it so...have fun?

**Chapter Four**

“These are a definite no.” Jonathan said firmly, tossing the glasses over his shoulder. They slid under the dusty couch, and Jeremiah winced at the sound of breaking glass. 

“But I need—”

“It ruins the aesthetic.” he explained, turning away to sort through a pile of expensive ties that had most likely been stolen from some high-end store. Jeremiah sighed, making a move to escape, but Jonathan dragged him back. “It’s very important to have a definable look, you know?”

“No. Not really.”

“You think I wear burlap on my head because I want to?” he gestured impatiently to the mask, which sat on top of a pile of wrinkled laundry in the corner of the room. “Not a chance. That stuff is torturous, gives me a rash on my face. But it keeps with the theme, so I wear it. That way everyone knows they’re dealing with the Scarecrow."

“I really don’t think it’s necessary,” Jeremiah began, but Jonathan held up a hand, cutting him off.

“The. Aesthetic.” 

“I don’t have _time_ for this.” He shoved the other away impatiently, knocking over the ties in the process. “I have to figure out how to—”

“I know, I know. Bruce Wayne. You need him to see things your way, blah blah blah. It’s not like that’s the only thing you talk about ever.”

“He’s got to be so angry with me after what happened to Jim Gordon.” Jeremiah murmured, anxiety written all over his face, which had grown increasingly pale in recent days. He refused to believe it was all the fault of the laughing gas, even though he knew deep down that it _was,_ just like the laughter, which was getting more and more difficult to suppress sometimes. 

“I mean, can you really blame the kid? You killed his friend.”

“It was _necessary,_ Crane!” he spat, crossing his arms defensively. “He has to _understand._ And Gordon was in the way.”

“You still killed him.”

“Unless you know how to convince Bruce he needs to do this,” Jeremiah said between his teeth, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I had an idea about that, actually.” Jonathan commented, comparing the shades of two silk ties to one another. “Not that you’d want to know what it is, since you don’t like anything I have to say.” 

Jeremiah narrowed his eyes at him. “You don’t have any reason to be helpful.”

“I actually do. I prefer to make some profit when I’m forced to work with someone else. Like when your brother recruited me, I got to make the insanity gas. Win-win.”

“I’d prefer it if you called it something else—”

“I’d prefer it if you stopped thinking you can tell me what to do.” Jonathan shot back. “Honestly, if I knew I was going to have to work with a spoiled child, I’d have stayed in that warehouse. But _anyway,_ I made profit when I helped Jerome. And I want to do it again. That’s why I’m allowing myself to work with you.”

“And that’s why you’re lecturing me on aesthetics?” Jeremiah deadpanned.

“No one’s going to take you seriously if you go around dressed like a stupid dork. You've got to have class."

“How about we go back to the part where you said you had an idea? About how to get Bruce to—”

“Right. Look,” Jonathan began, just as Ecco walked into the apartment.

“Tetch says all the bombs are in place.” She grinned. “No one knows they’re there but us.” Pulling a detonator out of her pocket, she tossed it to Jeremiah, who caught it carefully. “Are you going to the GCPD to ask them about evacuation?”

“I…guess so.” The nervous laugh between words was breathy and almost scared. “But I can’t do it until Bruce…”

“...joins you, so why don’t you listen to my plan?” Jonathan broke in again. “As I was saying, you need to take away everything Wayne holds onto _now,_ right? The people he cares about. It’s you he needs to focus on, so they have to go.”

Jeremiah frowned. Jonathan’s description of his plan might have been accurate, but it didn’t sound very pleasant when he said it like that. Then again, it _wasn’t_ going to be pleasant, just like killing Gordon wasn’t…but he had to do it. It was the only way to get Bruce to understand.

And then they could truly rule Gotham together.

Catching Jeremiah’s wordless nod, Jonathan continued. “There’s a very simple solution, then. Take it all away right in front of him. So he knows for certain he can never go back. There's your problem, solved."

“Can you please just skip to the part where you tell me what I should do?” Jeremiah looked annoyed, but there was a glimpse of something almost childlike and lost in his eyes as he listened to Jonathan. The latter noticed it, and slowly began to realize his companion had been completely dependent on the hope that Bruce Wayne would unquestioningly join him in his insanity (Jonathan had no qualms about considering Jeremiah insane, he simply refrained from mentioning it to avoid more conflict), and now that he was forced to change his plan, he didn’t know what to do.

_Why did I have to get stuck working with a complete amateur?_ he thought bitterly.

“Fine. See that stuff?” He gestured to the containers of fear toxin stuffed in the corner of the room. “A strong hallucinogen, as you're aware. One whiff and you’re on the trip of a lifetime, and not a good one, either. Trust me, I know. Also,” he glanced over at Ecco, “what do we think about pinstripes?” Producing a suit coat from where it had been crumpled under the table, he held it up. 

She nodded from where she was perched on the couch and gave him a thumbs-up. “I like it.”

“Good, I do too. Maybe pair it with purple?” He picked out a tie from the top of the stack. Jeremiah sighed loudly.

“What about the fear toxin?”

“Think about it, bird brain.” He rolled his eyes. “Wayne’s lost his parents, right? They died in front of him, that’s what he’s famous for.”

“And the fact that he’s a billionaire with a flourishing company and actually tries to _help_ the city.”

“Subtracting your weirdly obsessed viewpoint, what it all boils down to is that Bruce Wayne is afraid of losing the people he loves. The toxin,” he pointed again, “activates those fears and makes them seem like a reality. Why go through all the trouble of rounding up everyone Bruce Wayne has ever cared about and killing them when you can make him believe it with no effort at all?”

Jeremiah’s eyes widened. “You mean, with the toxin, he’ll think they’re really gone? And then he’ll be able to…”

“He’ll join you. Trust me, this stuff is tried and true. And it’ll be a lot less hassle for you. I mean, we should probably kill at least one other person for good measure, maybe that old butler he’s always with or something…”

“No, you can’t kill Alfred.” Jeremiah said sharply. He knew the man was the closest thing Bruce had to a father, and he didn’t want to take _everything_ away from his friend. What was the point in letting Bruce become someone new if he would still be angry with him? No, the line had to be drawn somewhere.

“Fine.” Jonathan sighed, disappointed. “But we’ll need the old guy out of the picture one way or another for this to work.” His gaze turned back to Ecco. “Maybe accent the purple with a splash of green?” He held up a neon pocket square.

“I love it.”

“Okay, fine, we’ll do that.” Jeremiah said impatiently. Jonathan nodded.

“Green's a smart choice, it looks—”

“The _plan,_ I mean. Make him think…well, you know. You can handle the schematics for all that, can’t you? Organize it all? I have to talk to Tetch about the bombs.” He sidestepped the other boy and started for the door.

“Why do I have to be in charge of it?” Jonathan called after him, disgruntled.

“Because it was your idea. And because I’m on a tight time frame. Now that Gordon’s gone and the GCPD know I was involved, they’ll be looking for me. All of us. And I cannot allow any of this to go wrong anymore.”

“Should have thought things through better, then.”

“Well, if Bruce hadn’t—” he began, then cut himself off sharply. He couldn’t blame Bruce for the setbacks. After all, it had to be a shock to his friend to have had such an idea presented to him all at once. Gotham was his home, always had been, and the idea of destroying it so they could make something better was most likely quite jarring.

_But it doesn’t matter. Because he’ll learn. He has to learn, and then everything will be all right._

_He’ll finally understand that we need each other._

\+ + + + + + +

“Jeremiah Valeska, you say?” 

The man with the Wayne Enterprises name tag and custom-made suit was trembling with terror, his hands tied behind his back as he was led into the darkened building. Sneaking a glance around, he saw a motley gathering of figures surrounding him, all their eyes fixed on his face as he spoke. When he did, his voice shook.

“Y-yes. That’s what I heard Hatter—I mean Tetch, say. He hypnotized everyone else, and he thought I was too, but I heard everything he was saying. It was terrible, I barely escaped with my li—”

“Yes, yes, no one really cares about that part.” Oswald Cobblepot strode forward, pistol in hand. He stepped up close to the man, never breaking eye contact. “What _I_ want to know is what Valeska intends to do with a surplus supply of energy generators. And why is he working with that freak Tetch?”

“They’re bombs.” The man’s wrists shifted against the handcuffs he wore uncomfortably. Oswald stared. “Bombs that they made us build, otherwise they’d kill us all. Tetch _did_ kill the others, he…” He swallowed nervously when he saw the look on the other man’s face. “Anyway, we must have made at least fifteen in total. And they’re being transported all around the city right now.”

There was a prolonged silence in the room, the inhabitants glancing at each other wordlessly. The Wayne Enterprises worker tried not to fidget. 

When Oswald suddenly laughed, the sound was so sudden that he jumped. “So, another Valeska, hmm? I may be wrong, but this seems like a bit of an ego thing to me. He wants to be better than his brother, is that it?”

“His…his brother?” The man shook his head. “No…no, it’s not about that. Not that I heard, anyway. He’s planning on demolishing Gotham entirely, and then building a new one. For himself, and for…for Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce Wayne? What does he want with that kid?”

“Apparently they’re...friends?"

“Bruce Wayne, friends with a Valeska. What is this world coming to?” Oswald rolled his eyes, then paused. “Wait, can you go back to the part about demolishing Gotham?”

The man nodded faintly. “Please, you have to take this seriously. Valeska’s insane, but he’s a genius. These bombs are practically indestructible, and there’s no failsafe to prevent detonation. Gotham is going to be destroyed, and there’s nothing anyone can do.”

The condescending smirk that had appeared on Oswald’s face was gone now, his mouth drawn into a thin line. He didn’t appreciate someone trying to take down _his_ city, not at all. It simply wasn’t _done…_ and not by some no-name little twerp slinking along in his brother’s footsteps. Something had to be done about this, and quickly.

“When does he plan to set the bombs off?”

“T-tomorrow. That’s the plan, anyway. From what I heard Tetch say…”

“That’s enough.” Oswald interrupted, turning his back on the man to speak to his companions. “Change of plans, we’re putting a stop to this before anything else. No bombs are going off in Gotham tomorrow, or anytime soon, unless I say. Also, kill this man.” He jerked a thumb at the Wayne Enterprises employee, whose eyes grew even wider.

“Wait, no, please…” His words choked off into a scream, but Oswald didn’t look back as he walked away. He was too deep in thought about this new Valeska. 

_If he thinks he can destroy my city, then he needs a lesson on who Gotham belongs to, and who is allowed to make the decisions around here._

_And it looks like he might just get one._

\+ + + + + + +

The harsh winter wind howled through the city streets, bleak grey skies overhead. Outside the GCPD, twenty officers were gathered on the front stairs, guns loaded and aimed at the lone figure standing on the sidewalk in front of them.

Harvey Bullock, his face lined and his eyes heavy from stress at the apparent loss of their captain and his friend, pushed his way through the unmoving officers. “If you make one move, Valeska,” he shouted at the figure, who turned his gaze to him solemnly, “these cops are going to shoot you.”

“I’d advise against that.” Jeremiah said flatly, producing the detonator from his new jacket pocket (no matter what he thought about Jonathan Crane, at least he had good taste in fashion. And he _did_ like the pinstripes.) “I hate to compare myself to my brother, but I’m sure you’ve seen him employ the use of this little device before as well. Dead man’s switch. A detonator, one that is usually connected to at least one bomb. Which this one happens to be.”

Bullock paused, his gun gripped in both hands. “So what do you want?”

“I want everyone out of the city.” he replied calmly. Really, he thought, what did Bullock have to be angry about? Besides the fact Jim Gordon was dead, Jeremiah was giving him the chance to retreat with very acceptable losses. It was supreme generosity on _his_ part, if only the detective would see that. “by the end of the day. And before you ask, no, I cannot give you more time than that. Use it wisely.”

Bullock scowled disbelievingly at him. “There’s no way in hell we can get the city empty by then.” He hesitated, gun wavering in his grip. “And what exactly are you going to do if we don’t?” He was still shocked at the news of what happened to Gordon, and when Jeremiah’s name had been linked to the explosion, all he wanted to do was to punch the kid’s lights out and then drop him off one of Gotham’s bridges into the river. 

And now Jeremiah was standing right in front of him, calm as could be, and Bullock couldn’t do a thing because he was holding a bomb detonator and he couldn’t risk civilian lives. 

Not even for Jim.

“Oh, I see.” Jeremiah’s unperturbed voice cut through his thoughts like a scalpel. “You don't understand. You think this is connected to just _one_ bomb.” A smile crawled up the corners of his mouth, and although his eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, Bullock could imagine the malicious gleam they held. “Perhaps I should have phrased that better.”

The detective’s voice was strained when he spoke. “What are you saying?”

“Bullock,” Jeremiah glanced around, turning his gaze away from the officers clustered around him, surveying the surrounding city with a disinterested expression, “you, of all people, should know this city is corrupt. Down to its very core. Your own men,” he gestured to the members of the GCPD with the hand holding the detonator, “are most likely on the payrolls of several gangs that run Gotham from the underworld. You have an inexcusable crime rate, and frankly, it’s a disgrace of a city. No one deserves to rule a place like this.”

“So?” Bullock gritted, not bothering to argue, and definitely not interested in pursuing the subject of Jeremiah mentioning someone "ruling" the city. “What’s your point?”

Jeremiah turned back to him. “We _will_ build a new Gotham, but this one must be torn down first. Simple truths, but rarely met with approval. Even I know that.” Regret flickered across his face, followed by a flash of anger. Then it was gone, and his expression returned to its blank stare as if nothing had happened. Bullock shuddered. “So if you would rather allow your citizens to live instead of being crushed to death by falling buildings, take my advice and evacuate them by tonight.”

“You’re going to bomb the city?” It wasn’t really a question, but the detective couldn’t quite process what he was hearing. Jeremiah sighed.

“If that’s what you would prefer to call it, then yes.”

Through the jumble of confusion and concern that was filling Bullock’s head at the moment, he realized something didn’t quite click. “You said _we._ That _we_ would build a new Gotham…who do you mean?” Did Jeremiah Valeska have some unheard-of group of followers ready to do his bidding at every moment? Was this a resurgence of what had happened with Jerome? It was all too much to take in, and Bullock cursed the detonator Valeska was holding, because if it was gone, then he could shoot this psycho in the head and put Gotham out of its misery permanently.

“Oh.” Jeremiah’s voice grew softer, and for a moment, Bullock saw a spark of humanity break through the mask of neutrality that was his face. 

Humanity, and vulnerability. 

He knew at once he had tapped into something that meant a lot to Jeremiah…maybe even his motive for all of this. If he GCPD could find out what it was…destroy it before the city was ruined…maybe they would have a chance.

“I meant Bruce Wayne.” Jeremiah explained, and Bullock’s heart sank.  He remembered with startling clarity, back when Theo Galavan had tried to steal Wayne Enterprises, how the Wayne kid was friends with Jeremiah. How, when they’d found him in the penthouse, Bruce had promised to never let them be separated again, and how Jeremiah had stared at him with a strange sort of infatuation in his eyes. 

It was a memory Bullock hadn’t ever remembered up to this point in time, but he saw it now, as clearly as if it had just happened, and he realized this entire situation was even more dangerous than he had realized.

Because Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s figurehead, was involved too.

“That’s why the city has to be rebuilt. Bruce deserves better.” Jeremiah was saying, and there was so much pure conviction in his voice that Bullock knew there would be no reasoning with him. Not when he was so certain, or at least tricking himself into _feeling_ certain, that he was right.

It was horrifying to see.

“You have no idea what Bruce Wayne wants. You’re a psycho, and I’ll bet he stopped being your friend a long time ago, or as long as you’ve been like this.”

Jeremiah felt his breath stop at Bullock’s words, and his head reeled for a moment, an onslaught of raw anger overpowering everything else in his mind. 

_How could he say that, how could he, it’s a lie, Bruce will always be my friend, no matter how he feels now…he’s your family, he said it himself, and now he's all you have left, you can’t let him get away._

“Yeah, you don’t like that, huh?” Bullock called from the steps, watching Jeremiah fight to keep his anger in check. “Guess your little plan ain’t lookin’ so bright anymore, is it?”

His breath quickened, became shallow and irregular. He didn’t want to laugh, it wasn’t funny, it wasn’t funny at all, but he felt the urge stinging in the back of his throat. 

_Stop it…please, please stop it…_

_Stop saying those things…_

_Bruce would never leave you, he’s your friend. He’s more than Jerome ever was in every way…he’s your brother, he has been ever since you met him, and you aren’t going to lose him. Not now. Not when you could be so much…not when you both could have so much together…_

_You could have this entire city._

He was glad he was wearing the sunglasses as hot tears began to burn in his eyes. If this didn’t work…if Bruce refused…

He didn’t know what he would do.

“Bruce Wayne wants nothing to do with you.” Bullock continued, merciless in his verbal attack. Jeremiah’s hand tightened around the detonator, his entire body trembling with anger he couldn’t suppress. Anger and pain, because there was nothing that hurt worse than hearing Bruce didn’t care about him. It was a lie...an ugly, _ugly_ lie, and Bullock had no right, no right at _all…_

“Six hours.” His voice was hoarse when he spoke, and the words were barely audible above the wind. But the detective heard it, and he frowned.

“What?”

“You have six hours now.” Jeremiah raised his head, giving the man a spiteful smile. “You and this city. I detonate the bombs then, and if you don’t get everyone out, then they die.” Bullock paled, and Jeremiah felt a shot of triumph. _That’ll shut you up._

“You can’t do that.”

_I can. I can do anything. I can get Bruce to join me, I can make him do what I want him to do…no one can stop me because Jerome is dead and he can’t hold me back anymore, no one can…_

“As long as I am the one holding this detonator, I decide how this city burns.” he replied, forcing his voice to be calm. “And I say six hours.”

“You won’t. You won’t do that, Valeska.” There was a note of pleading in the man’s voice now, and Jeremiah grinned. 

_Nothing you say will stop me._

_You’re powerless._

_You all are._

“All right.” Slowly, he pulled a smaller detonator from his pocket, keeping his eyes fixed on Bullock the entire time. Tetch had given it to him as a means of backup, and this seemed like the opportune time to put it to good use. “Since you seem to be in need of a little persuasion…” 

When he pressed the detonator, a deafening rumble sounded behind him, and Jeremiah could see the pure horror cross the faces of the officers on the steps. The ground shook, and small cracks spiderwebbed across the worn concrete underfoot. In the distance, the Gotham Clock Tower split cleanly down the middle with a sound like an amplified gunshot, collapsing in on itself in a cloud of black, impenetrable smoke. Jeremiah listened to the explosion, his expression never changing.

“You have six hours, I suggest you use it wisely.” he said above the noise. Bullock’s shocked gaze strayed to his face, and Jeremiah tilted his head at him, still smiling. “I really do wish you good luck, detective. You’re going to need it if you don’t want the deaths of hundreds of citizens on your hands.” 

Without any hurry, he turned and walked away, weaving his way through the motionless crowd that had paused on the streets as the explosion cut through the everyday sounds of the city. He stepped into a nearby alley unobtrusively, locking the switch on the first detonator in place and slipping it back into his pocket. He’d keep his word to Bullock, of course…it was pointless to let so many people die when at least some could be saved, and maybe his generosity would make Bruce understand he wasn’t truly insane…but that was all. Six hours, nothing more.

The sounds of the explosion still reverberated in the air. It was a shame, of course…and the clock tower had been a beautiful building, a true architectural work of art…but Jeremiah had to get the point across, otherwise this entire plan might not work.

And if it involved a few deaths in the process…well, that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

He caught himself smiling as he watched the flames from the tower rise into the sky, angry and red and causing waves of heat through the air, and this time, he didn’t stop himself. Why should he? There was no one around to see. No one to think he was insane. And as long as _Jeremiah_ knew he was as sane as ever, there was no point in hiding anything from himself.

Besides, he couldn’t deny the sense of power it gave him, seeing the city begin to burn before his eyes. Knowing it was him who had caused it.

_Jerome could never even dream of something on this scale._

He had never known what it was like to feel powerful…he had always operated as low-profile as possible, and when bad things happened, he was never the one in control. He had been manipulated, tricked, forced to do what _other_ people wanted…this was, to say the least, a bit of a refreshing change.

There was no harm in thinking that, was there?

He was so captivated at the sight of the burning clock tower that he didn’t notice a dark, hulking figure creeping up behind him, muffling its heavy footsteps as best it could. 

It wasn’t until a cold, muscled arm wrapped itself around his neck and a fist flew into the side of his face that he realized he wasn’t alone, and by then, the world had already gone black.

\+ + + + + +

Selina was fuming.

She followed Bruce and Alfred from a distance as they slowly exited the shadowy building, her hand wrapped around the whip so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She had been angry, _furiously_ angry before, when she had found Bruce in this mess, but now her anger had tapered off, become sharper, more lethal.

She didn’t even have time to regret how they had come to this.

She had come across Bruce in this hellhole infused with Scarecrow’s fear toxin, out of his mind with confusion and terror. He’d thought Alfred was dying, or something of the sort, images and film footage flashing on screens all around him as he made his way through the maze in the old warehouse where this had taken place. As soon as Selina, who had followed him, realized it was a maze, she knew who was at fault.

And she knew exactly who she wanted to go after to teach a lesson to that he would never forget.

But first she'd had to find Bruce. When she did, and they had been reunited with Alfred (the man Bruce had seen was a random Gothamite, transformed in Bruce’s toxin-affected mind to the sight of his beloved butler, who had been locked up in a closet in the building) and had escaped the place before anyone could stop them. Scarecrow had undoubtedly seen the whole thing, wherever he was, but they had gotten out unscathed, and were now weaving their way back through an old alleyway to the car Bruce and Selina had arrived in. She remembered how horrified he’d been when he’d gotten the call just an hour ago that Alfred was being held hostage, and her anger toward Jeremiah doubled.

_How dare he do something like that. No one…not even an insane person would think there’s anything reasonable about any of this. To try and force your own friend to become like you for whatever twisted reason…it’s evil._

Bruce was all right now, the toxin having worn off in less than a few minutes once Selina had turned off the spigot that was pumping it into the building's air ducts. But that did nothing to lessen Selina’s anger, and now her focus had been completely directed to one goal and one goal only.

She had to stop Jeremiah before he could do any more damage.

Whatever it took.

Whatever she needed to do.

Because she couldn’t lose Bruce. Not after everything they had been through together…now, she needed to protect him from the monster his friend had become, because if she didn’t, Jeremiah would do something even worse. And this time, it might truly drive Bruce mad. That couldn’t ever happen, and Selina vowed to take her former friend down without any hesitation. She had to do it.

Right now, however, she and Bruce were going back to the manor. She wasn’t going to leave him yet…not after the ordeal he had been through with the fear toxin…and she knew Jeremiah wasn’t planning on leaving the city. She could find him easily enough.

There was a dangerous light in her eyes that shone as she watched Bruce and Alfred in front of her, and her face was taut, immobile as she fought to keep her emotions in check. But it did nothing to lessen the intensity of her thoughts, especially the one that rang in her head over and over, whispering the same few words incessantly the entire time.

_I’m going to kill him._

\+ + + + + + 

“So, you’re Jeremiah Valeska.”

The voice was far away and echoing, like someone was speaking at the end of a long, dark tunnel. Jeremiah blinked groggily, his head lolling to the side for a moment before his vision began to clear (at least, as best it could after Jonathan had thrown away his glasses earlier that day) and the figures in front of him began to take some sort of shape.

“I’ve been hearing a lot about you today.” the voice went on, and Jeremiah could see the face of a man with a beak-like nose materialize in the darkness. He blinked again, sitting up straight before realizing his hands were bound tightly behind his back, the rope digging into his wrists, and he was tied to a chair in the middle of a large, empty room. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, barely illuminating anything, but he could see well enough to make out the man and his companions who stood behind him.

“You’re not quite the maniac your brother was.” the man noted, something like appreciation in his voice. Jeremiah wasn’t really listening. He was more focused on the fact that he was trapped with these strangers, right when he so desperately needed things to go according to plan, too. There was a time when he would have been terrified out of his wits at the prospect of being held prisoner (his mind traveled back to some decidedly unpleasant memories at the thought) but right now, his fear was directed at the fact his plan was being neglected.

He had to get back. For Bruce’s sake.

In the back of his mind, he wondered how Crane’s little setup with the fear toxin had worked. 

“Still, you seem to be posing a bit of a threat to this city.” The man, who Jeremiah now recognized from the papers as Oswald Cobblepot, shook his head regretfully. “I’ve heard stories about bombings and destruction, and I really don’t like that.”

“That’s not your concern.” His throat was dry, and the words came out as a rasping whisper, but Oswald heard him all the same. He raised a critical eyebrow.

“It really is.” he sighed. “You see, I’ve been in charge of this city for quite a long time now, and I’m not exactly ready to let it come crashing down because of some aspiring psychopath.”

“I’m not a—” Jeremiah broke off mid-sentence and his neck snapped back as muscled fist landed against his jaw in a harsh blow. He choked on the blood that filled his mouth and his eyes shut involuntarily for a moment. Oswald seemed unperturbed.

“Thank you, Butch.” he said to someone Jeremiah couldn’t see. From behind him there came a rumbled,

“No problem, boss.”

From the hazy depths of his mind, Jeremiah thought, _There’s another reason for Ecco to not call you boss._

“So, I’m going to need that detonator.” Oswald said with a fake smile, holding out his hand. Jeremiah, his face throbbing from the blow, squinted at him.

“You think I’m going to give it to you?”

The man sighed. “I knew you would object.”

He shrugged as best he could, trying to maintain a facade of aloofness. “It’s just that I’m tied up.”

“Oh, right.” He smiled again. “You know, I like you better than your brother. He could be terribly obnoxious.”

“I’m aware.” Jeremiah said coldly, hoping his face didn’t show his unease. It wasn’t that he was _scared,_ he told himself…he just didn’t like being helpless. And right now, he felt _very_ helpless. Time was ticking by much too quickly, he had so much to do and had to find Bruce, and by the look of things, Oswald Cobblepot wasn’t planning on letting him walk out of this place alive.

Even if he wasn’t completely terrified, it was safe to say Jeremiah was at least a little worried.

_Just stay calm. Don’t let your emotions take over. You won’t escape like that._

But he felt so trapped, and the ropes strained against his arms, the blood flow in his hands completely gone. His head was aching and for a moment, he felt like he was sixteen years old again, locked in a penthouse bedroom and wishing with a hopeless desperation that Bruce would find him.

Because Bruce always made everything better, in the end.

_He_ wouldn’t let Jeremiah die here. 

“I’m still taking the detonator.” Oswald continued, bringing Jeremiah back to the present. He shivered, wishing there was a way to block out those intrusive memories. They reminded him of a time when he hadn’t been in control of anything, and he didn’t want to think about that ever again. It was too nerve-wracking.

“And then Tabitha here will kill you.”

Jeremiah’s gaze snapped up at that, focusing on the woman standing in the corner of the room, a knife in one hand and a disinterested expression on her face. 

And as much as he didn’t want to think about those memories, they came flooding back all the same, stronger than ever.

_I hate her I hate her I hate her…_

He hated Tabitha, he hated her brother, he hated feeling powerless and weak and unable to do anything but hide and hope he wasn’t killed. It wasn’t regular hatred...it was that bitter, tortured flare of loathing that seemed to be overtaking his thoughts more and more as the days passed.

_I hate her._

But he tried to hide it when he met her gaze, licking the blood off his lip.

“How’s Selina?” he asked, keeping his expression as blank as a corpse's face. Tabitha started, surprised.

“You know…”

“I’m going to kill you, by the way.” he interrupted, his voice never changing in pitch. The moment he spoke, his mind began racing, confusion clouding everything. Had he really said that? Said it aloud? He’d never admitted to wanting to kill someone like that…not even someone he hated. 

It didn't feel like _him,_ but, in an odd way and at the same time, it did.

What it really felt was _unfamiliar_.

His hands were trembling from where they were tied behind his back, but his eyes still looked dead and he continued to watch her steadily. 

Tabitha laughed. “Good luck with that.”

“I will.” He kept staring.

The patronizing smile on her face faltered. “Guess you’re not the forgive and forget type, huh?”

“Not really.” He turned back to Oswald. His heart was beating much too fast, but he felt almost detached, as if his fear was something outside of him and he was seeing it from a distance. Almost as if he were two people: the frightened, helpless _thing_ he used to be, and who he was now…still in control even if it didn’t seem like it.

“Yes, well,” Oswald straightened his tie. “that’s nice and all, but back to the matter at hand. You say you’re going to destroy Gotham.”

“Who wouldn’t want to?”

“Well, I, for one, have a bit of an attachment to this city. I’d much rather see her standing than not.”

“I saw your mother die.” Jeremiah said suddenly. Oswald froze, his angular face turning sheet white as he stared. Jeremiah smiled at him. “She told me once how smart you were. I guess she was wrong, otherwise you would have saved her.”

“Don’t,” Oswald snarled, stepping closer, “talk about my mother.”

“I might as well. If you’re going to kill me anyway.” He couldn’t believe he was saying these things, antagonizing his captor, but it was too late to back out now. “I’m legally entitled to a few last words.”

“Not here, you’re not.” Oswald bit back. “And if you bring up my mother again, you will severely regret it.”

“You were there, too. When she died.” Jeremiah continued, never dropping his stare. His silver eyes looked abnormal and unnerving in the darkness. “It was a little bit pathetic, if you ask me. You didn’t try very hard to save her.”

Oswald lunged forward, his hands latching onto Jeremiah’s shoulders. “Maybe you’re not so different from your brother after all.” he gritted. 

Jeremiah flinched at that and his eyes darkened. “I’m nothing like Jerome.”

Before Oswald could reply, the single light in the room flickered, then went out. There was a rustling sound in the sudden blackness, then the air filled with smoke. There was a sound of a body hitting the floor, then the noises of a scuffle erupted in the silence. Jeremiah sucked in a breath before the smoke enveloped him, ducking his head as he heard a shot go off. 

_What the…_

He felt the cold steel of a knife along his wrists and tried to struggle away, but then a voice in his ear whispered, “Hold still.” Not knowing what else to do, and fully aware an attempt to escape would be useless, Jeremiah complied, surprised when the rope was cut without doing any damage to him and the bonds fell away. Slowly, he got up, and someone’s hand tightened around his shoulder, pushing him toward the door. Jeremiah stumbled over a prone body on the floor, but kept pace with whoever had freed him, slipping outside and into the darkening afternoon light in the alley behind the building. Rubbing his hands together to try and restore circulation, his head reeling from everything happening all at once, he looked up at the man standing beside him. He looked vaguely familiar, and Jeremiah frowned.

“Do I know you?”

“Not exactly.” The man’s voice was oddly authoritative for a stranger. “We haven't officially met, I'm afraid. However, I’ve been following your endeavors for the past week, and I must say, I’m very impressed with your tenacity, Jeremiah.”

“How do you know my name?” He stared hard at the man, trying to remember where he had seen him before. He _did_ recognize his face, but he couldn’t place it. “And why did you get me out of there?”

“Because you have the willingness I need on hand to fulfill my goal. As well as several bombs that may come in quite handy.”

Jeremiah scoffed. “I’m not interested in being a right-hand man to anyone.”

“I wasn’t asking you to." He paused, thinking. "I prefer the term business partner.”

“And why would I work with you? I already have a plan in place, and I can’t afford to deviate from the script at this point.”

The man, whose black hair was streaked with grey along the sides, smiled gently. “Because we are here for a common cause.”

Jeremiah began walking away, first ensuring that the detonator was still safely in his pocket and not in the hands of his temporary captors. _What a bunch of morons they are._ “No, thank you. I don’t even know your name.”

The man matched his strides. “Ra’s al Ghul.”

He paused at that, looking back up at the figure beside him as his eyes widened in recognition. He remembered the name from what Bruce had told him…remembered when they had gone to the abandoned building after Bruce had been kidnapped by the Court of Owls and had returned…remembered how he’d been afraid he would never get his friend back after he left him behind…

Jeremiah stared at the man with an unfriendly look. He, too, brought back memories that were better off forgotten. If a memory truly could be forgotten. “Oh.”

“I saw you before. In the Yuyan building.” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice was soft, but still undeniably assertive. “You were with Bruce Wayne.”

Hearing the name spoken aloud reminded him of his goal. “Yes." He pushed the memories to the back of his mind. There were more important things to think about. "And now if you’ll excuse me…”

“I want to make you an offer.”

“Remind me later.” Jeremiah said over his shoulder, unaware he was snubbing a thousand-year-old immortal. “I’m very busy and not interested in a partnership. But thanks for getting me out of that mess.”

_As if I’d need help conquering the city. I can do it on my own._

Ra’s al Ghul didn’t protest, only watched him go, turning away as Jeremiah disappeared around the corner. As he walked off in the opposite direction, he smiled, small and secretive, and his dark eyes gleamed expectantly.

Even if he hadn't quite gotten what he'd wanted, it would come soon enough.

It was only a matter of time.

\+ + + + + +

“Did Bruce make it?” Jeremiah asked anxiously, twisting his hands together as Jonathan shuffled into the apartment, disentangling himself from the burlap mask. “I mean, did he find the place? And did everything go all right? You didn’t kill Alfred, did you, Bruce would never forgive me for that, and I can’t let him…” 

“He got away.” Jonathan said shortly, throwing the mask across the room at the wall. Looking grumpier than usual, he slumped down in the corner of the couch. “Everything almost fell into place, but then he escaped.”

_ He escaped. _

_ He escaped, he escaped, he... _

Jeremiah could feel the blood drain from his face and for a moment, he couldn’t think, only stare at Jonathan unbelievingly. This had been his final effort, his last, desperate attempt to make Bruce see that he had to leave everything behind to become stronger, better…

But he’d failed.

“How?” he asked breathlessly, and Jonathan looked over at him with a bad-tempered expression.

“I have a better question for you, how did you manage to go out and come home with a black eye less than two hours later? Do you just attract violent people or something?”

Jeremiah, who hadn’t mentioned the delay involving Oswald and the others, glared back. “How did Bruce escape?” he repeated, his voice quivering. He hated it, but there was nothing he could do. Not when it came to Bruce...it was impossible to hold his emotions in check when something like this, something so important had gone horribly wrong.

“His girlfriend or whatever. She found the butler and turned off the gas before Wayne could go completely bonkers.”

“Selina?” he breathed, still staring. 

_This was supposed to work, it was supposed to fix everything and Bruce would join you, you could both control Gotham, because you’re supposed to be together…_

“I guess. It was some girl with a whip and a really rad leather jacket. You know, if I was into leather, I’d buy…”

Jeremiah stood up abruptly, turning away and pushing past Jervis, who had just come in. The man looked sideways at him.

“Didn’t you just now get home? Why are you going out again? You're supposed to detonate the bombs in four hours.”

Jeremiah didn’t answer. He had to get away, had to hide and figure out what was happening, because everything was crashing down and he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know…

_Selina._

_She ruined this for you._

_She ruined it all._

He half-stumbled down the back stairs of the apartment building, stepping outside and leaning against the alley wall. He was shaking, feeling horribly cold, and the threat of tears stung the back of his eyes.

_This can’t happen._

_You worked so hard…you tried to get him to see…_

_No, this can’t…_

_You have to stop it, you have to find him, find a way to explain…_

Everything had become so complicated. When he’d brought Bruce to the Wayne Enterprises building just five days ago, he’d been so sure that his friend would understand, and they could tear down the city together so it would be rebuilt.

But Bruce had abandoned him.

And now Selina had stopped him from becoming who he was supposed to be. He had been so close, Jeremiah had almost gotten what he wanted…

He shuddered, anger coursing through his body with such intensity it was almost painful.

_She keeps getting in your way._

_She’s preventing Bruce from…_

_From becoming better._

_He has to learn to let go of her. He has to, otherwise she’ll keep holding him back. He has to see he doesn’t need her, he can't need her, he can only have you, because that’s what he deserves, it’s what both of you deserve…_

_If he doesn’t let her go, then you have to do it for him._

He giggled, tears springing helplessly to his eyes, and he wrapped his arms around himself tightly. _Bruce, you can’t leave me, you can’t leave this city, think of the power we could have, think of what we could do. We don’t need anyone else, just each other, we can control them all, we can do whatever we want and no one…not even Jerome, because he’s dead…no one can stop us._

_Bruce, you have to understand. You have to._

_I need you to understand._

He slumped up against the wall, breathless, trying to control the laughter. Trying to control _something,_ now that everything was breaking apart. 

But he couldn’t. He couldn't stop it.

Slowly, he wondered if he should simply stop trying to stay in control. Maybe it would be easier that way.

Because what was the point, if Bruce wasn’t going to listen? If he wasn’t going to learn?

Jeremiah shook his head. _You can’t give up. You can’t. It’s not fair to Bruce, you can’t leave him like this. He needs to know the truth, he needs to see his own potential. It’s not fair if you don’t let him see it._

The smoke from the clock tower explosion still hung in the air as he stared up at the sky, and he held on tightly to the detonator in his pocket, wondering how many more things would go wrong with his plan. He’d already lost the most important element.

His best friend.

_You can’t think like that. You have to trust yourself. Trust that you’ll succeed._

_Otherwise you’ll never get to show Bruce the truth._

He gripped the detonator even tighter, listening to the police sirens rising about the clamor of the city on the other side of the wall.

The chaos.

_You’ll never show him._

_And you’ll never be in control again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcome! I'd love to hear your thoughts! <3


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this chapter earlier, but AO3 wasn't updating it so here it is again, re-posted lol

**Chapter Five**

“Jim-freakin’-Gordon.” Harvey Bullock stared at the newly returned police captain with an unbelieving grin on his face. “We all…well, _they_ all thought you were dead. I don’t know how you do it, buddy.”

Gordon gave a tired laugh, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don’t know either. It was pure luck, escaping that bunker. What’s happened while I was gone?”

“Oh, you know, just that damn Valeska kid threatening to bomb the entire city.” Bullock’s smile disappeared as remembered _why_ his partner had gone missing in the first place.

Gordon stared. “What the hell…so he’s really going through with it.”

Bullock shrugged. “That’s what he says.” He shook his head darkly. “Gave us six hours to get out before Gotham goes up in smoke.”

“That’s impossible. He can’t do that.”

“He had the detonator for all the bombs, I had to let him go.” The detective’s mouth was drawn into a thin line and he took a swig from his ever-present bottle of whisky. “I guess you heard about the clock tower?” He nodded out the window at the dust and debris that still clogged the air.

Jim followed his gaze. “Yep. That was him?”

“Saw him set it off with my own two eyes. He's completely nuts."

“Okay.” Gordon began pacing back and forth, forehead furrowed in deep thought. “We’ve got to find the bombs and figure out a way to disarm…”

“Jim, _that’s_ impossible. We have no idea how many there are, or how to—”

“We’ve got to, Harvey. Otherwise, people will die.”

“But how…”

“I’ll think of a way. There has to be something.” Gordon sighed, trying to focus. “How much time is left now?”

Bullock checked his watch. “Hour and a half. And we’ve barely gotten anyone out of the city. The bridges are backed up all the way to downtown and the ferries can only take so many people. It’s gonna be a massacre, Jim.”

“Not if we can help it.” he said staunchly, looking up when the office door swung open. “Bruce. You’re still here?”  
Bruce, who had stopped by the GCPD just in time to see Gordon arrive and speak to him, nodded. “I was talking to Lucius and I think…I don’t know, but I think we might have figured out where the bombs are and how to stop them.” He held up two pieces of paper attached to each other at the corners.

Bullock frowned. “What’s that?”

The young billionaire spread the papers out on the desk, and the two officers looked over his shoulder. “It’s the outline Jeremiah showed me of where he’d be putting the bombs.” They could see the maze and the bomb locations clearly underneath the map overlay. “He designed his plan as a maze, just like…” He paused, clearing his throat. Gordon could see the sadness in his eyes. “Just like the bunker was. He wanted to turn the city into someplace where he’d feel safe. And so if the bombs go off, Gotham will turn into a labyrinth similar to what his home was.”  
“And how did you get this?” Gordon asked, not willing to be hopeful quite yet. Bruce looked perplexed as he answered,

“I found it in the study when I got back to the manor.” He didn’t mention the ordeal with the fear toxin…there wasn’t time for that now. And he had decided to confront Jeremiah about it himself…it was something to be dealt with between the two of them. “On the table. The strange thing is, I don’t remember having it. I thought he kept it after he showed me his plan in the Wayne Enterprises building, but I guess…” he shook his head. “I guess I was wrong. In any case, this _is_ where the bombs are.”

“Kid, if you ever want to become an honorary member of the GCPD, you’re more than welcome.” Bullock muttered. “I’ll go get the bomb squad to move out. Maybe they can find a way to stop the detonation?”

“Lucius and I were working on that.” Bruce continued. Gordon could see the exhaustion in his eyes…the ordeal of seeing his friend deteriorate like this before him had to be incredibly taxing, he knew. It only made him admire Bruce more, that he had pressed on like this. But he was worried he would get _too_ involved…if Jeremiah had gone insane, Bruce could be in danger. “They’re all wired to a sequence, so if you can deactivate just one, then none of them will go off.”

Bullock took another long swig of his whiskey, staring in disbelief. “Let me reiterate that honorary member thing.” he said between gulps. “If I had a medal to give you, I would, believe me.”

“Bruce, you may have just saved the city.” Gordon murmured, carefully folding up the map and striding out to the balcony overlooking the inside of the police station. “All right, people, listen up!”

Bruce watched him address the officers, giving orders of where to go first, then turned to leave. He had planned on staying safely in the manor after what had happened with the fear toxin, but when he’d seen the map sitting in his own home and heard the evacuation report on the news, heard his best friend’s name attached to it as the perpetrator, he knew he’d had to do something about it.

After all, he’d made a promise to protect the city.

And even if he had to protect it from Jeremiah, he wasn’t going to stop now.

A solitary pair of eyes followed Bruce intently as he left the station. From the shadows, a man in a dark suit and black hair streaked with grey watched the boy depart, a satisfied smile on his face.

He was proud of his heir, who had done exactly what the man had expected. Once Bruce had found the conveniently placed map in the manor, he’d gone straight to the police, worked out a way to stop the bombing, and had done it all much more efficiently than the man had thought possible. Yes, he was certainly ready to take command of Gotham.

Ra’s al Ghul, who had witnessed hundreds of years of great leaders rise and fall from power, smiled to himself again.

Everything was going according to plan very nicely.

\+ + + + + + + +

Jeremiah looked out across the rooftops of the city, the black clouds in the evening sky drifting restlessly above. The wind had grown colder, and it whipped around him as he stood on the edge, holding the detonator to the bombs in one gloved hand (Jonathan had insisted upon the gloves…he said it added just the right amount of flair. And Jeremiah, although he knew there was going to be no one around when he detonated the bombs to notice it anyway, had relented.)

He wished Bruce was here with him. To see the beautiful new world he was going to create. For _them._

_You would be here if you had only gotten the chance to open your eyes._

_If Selina hadn’t been involved._

He would certainly be dealing with that later.

But there was nothing he could do about it right now. The bombs had to go off…Gotham had to see he was not someone to be trifled with, to be cast aside as a mere copy of his brother, who had himself failed in his final moments to achieve his own goals.

He glanced down at the concrete.

That was exactly why he was _here._

On that same rooftop where he had stood barely more than a week ago ( _only a week…so much has happened since then)_ , when he had finally told Jerome he was better, that he had _won._ And when Jerome had told _him_ that he was ready, just moments before he died.

Jeremiah shivered.

_I don’t think he was quite right about that._

He knew if Bruce was here, he would feel ready. Ready to rule Gotham with his best friend, ready to take control over everything he wanted because no one would be able to stop him…but now, he only felt empty. Even as the minutes ticked on and on toward the moment of detonation, even as he knew he would finally be able to watch this city burn to the ground so he could build something better in his place, he knew he wouldn’t enjoy it. Wouldn’t appreciate the beauty of it.

Because he didn’t have anyone to share it with.

He didn’t have _Bruce._

Trying to distract himself from the agitation creeping at the corners of his mind, whispering its way into his thoughts, he glanced at his watch impatiently, clutching the detonator tighter. Two minutes until the bombs went off.

Empty or not, Gotham was going to be destroyed.

And strangely enough, Jeremiah didn’t feel badly for anyone who was left behind. It just didn’t seem to matter anymore. No one did. No one but Bruce.

He continued staring at the ground, noticing the drops of dried blood staining the rough concrete. For a moment, he almost felt as if Jerome was still there, watching him with glittering eyes before they’d turned blank and he’d toppled off the edge of the roof…this very roof he was standing on now. And for a moment, he very nearly found himself actually missing his twin.

Because Jerome always knew what to do. Even if Jeremiah didn’t like it, he alway knew.

He wasn’t afraid of failing.

_No, you don’t miss him. You don’t need him, and you never did. He means nothing to you, remember that._

Jeremiah sighed, checking the time again. Fifty seconds now…he felt a tremor of anticipation rush through his body. The city would crumble around him, the old Gotham would be gone forever, and he would have the chance to rebuild it himself.

Because he knew that was the only way to become better.

To become _more._

And Bruce deserved a city like that. They both did. Jeremiah wasn’t going to settle for less. For his friend, and for himself.

They deserved a new Gotham.

_Thirty seconds._

A small, ridiculous hope flared up in his mind that maybe Bruce would have a change of heart and would join him on the rooftop before the bombs went off. They could watch the aftermath together, standing on the edge, looking out into the darkness below.

_On the edge…_

Jeremiah frowned at that as an unwanted memory flashed in front of his eyes.

The nightmare he’d had…it felt like so long ago…

When they had been on the edge, staring at each other, and Bruce had hated him.

He’d hated Jeremiah, and he knew there would be no going back.

_No, we can’t become like that._

_I won’t let him become like that._

There were twenty seconds left now.

He could hear the pandemonium rising from the streets below as the citizens clamored to find some sort of safe place to hide. They knew they couldn’t escape. There was nothing to do but wait and accept their inevitable death.

_Why don't you understand, Bruce?_

_Why don’t you see that this needs to happen?_

_For you._

_For us._

His hand closed tighter around the detonator. He was completely unaware that, at that very moment, Detective Harvey Bullock was standing by one of his carefully placed bombs, torn between which breaker to snap in two and prevent the explosion. To Jeremiah, there was no possible way this plan could go wrong now…it had already experienced too many pitfalls for that.

He had to succeed at least _once._

To prove he was better than Jerome.

Prove it to Bruce, and to everyone else in Gotham.

And himself.

_Ten seconds._

He steeled himself for the moment, allowing himself one final look across the city skyline. In the distance, he saw the silhouette of a familiar apartment building, one he hadn’t even allowed himself to look at during the past three years, and he shuddered, thinking about the tortuous month he’d spent in captivity there.

Because they had all been more _powerful_ than him. Galavan, Jerome, everyone…

_It doesn’t matter. It will be destroyed in a matter of seconds._

_There will be nothing left to haunt you anymore._

The final five seconds began ticking down.

_Please, Bruce. Please understand. Please realize everything I’ve done for you. Everything I was willing to do. You have to see that, you have to._

_It’s all for you, Bruce._

_It always will be._

At that moment, in the basement of some unknown building, Bullock was preparing himself to rip the thin metal breaker from where it was bent into place on the bomb as the lights on the contraption began to turn red.

Jeremiah listened to the final shouts and cries of the terrified people below.

His fingers closed around the detonator, pressing down the black button on the top.

\+ + + + + + + +

“Now you see, don’t you?” Selina asked as Bruce slowly entered the study, his shoulders slumped and face pale. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and he dragged his gaze up to meet hers before he sat down on the edge of the couch. “You see what I’ve been telling you all along?”  
“Selina,” he said quietly, staring blankly at the chess board in front of them, “please don’t.”

She heard the genuine pain in his voice, the regret that burned behind each word, and her expression softened with concern. “I’m sorry.”

_I’m sorry this had to happen to you._

_I’m sorry you couldn’t see it before now._

_And I’m sorry you feel like you could have stopped this. Because no one was ever going to be able to stop this._

_This was going to happen from the very beginning._

“I _could_ have stopped him.” Bruce whispered, and Selina shivered, feeling as if he had read her thoughts in that moment. “I could have, if I had just…”

She laid a hand over his lightly. “It wasn’t your fault.” she said with absolute conviction, as if there was some way to make him believe it too. “None of this was your fault. It’s him, it’s all him. You did everything you could.”

“I didn’t.” Bruce shook his head numbly. “There was so much I could have done…”

“And you think that would have made a difference?” Selina interrupted, entwining her fingers in his in a rare moment of affection on her part. “You can’t put that on yourself, Bruce. You just can’t. I know you feel responsible for him, but that doesn’t mean you have to be.”

“If I had tried harder, none of this would be happening. This city…”

“You don’t owe anything to Gotham.” she shook her head. “If it’s destroyed, if people die, that has nothing to do with you. You weren’t supposed to save them. It’s not your job.”

“But Jeremiah…”

“Is doing this on his own. It has nothing to do with you.”

‘It _does.”_ He held onto her hand tighter, staring at the chess board. “It has everything to do with me, because I’m the reason he’s doing this. He sees it as a _gift,_ Selina, he really thinks I _need_ this. He thinks it’s perfectly sane and reasonable.”

“You can’t help it if he’s obsessed with you. All you ever did was be his friend. He’s taken it in a direction you couldn’t ever have expected, so you couldn’t have stopped him. This _isn’t your fault.”_

“I’m supposed to protect this city.” he murmured, and Selina placed both of her hands over his.

“No. You’re not supposed to do anything but be Bruce Wayne. That’s who you are, you don’t owe anything else to _anyone._ You have to believe that, Bruce. Please.”

Bruce’s gaze strayed to the grandfather clock in the corner. The hands stood one minute from the hour, and the muscles in his face twitched. “He’s going to destroy the city.”

“And it’s not your fault.” she repeated. “It was never your fault, and it was never your responsibility. Nothing was. You can’t decide what Jeremiah is going to do.”

“No,” he gripped her hand tightly, his breath shaky as he turned away from the clock. The manor sat outside the city limits, but it would certainly be close enough to feel the impact when the bombs went off. Close enough to see the destruction firsthand.

The destruction he could have prevented.

“No,” he repeated, softer this time. “I can’t decide what he’s going to do.” Selina nodded, hoping she could at least begin to convince him of that. She frowned when she heard Bruce’s next words, spoken so quietly that they were barely audible.

“But I could have tried to stop him.”

\+ + + + + +

He stared out over the city, his breath frozen in his lungs. The clouds loomed overhead, closer than before. The frigid winter air had grown colder.

The trigger on the detonator was still compressed beneath his hand.

And Gotham was still standing.

He didn’t know Harvey Bullock was currently kneeling alongside the powered-down generator bomb, hands pressed to his mouth in a combination of shock and unsurpassable relief, the breaker snapped into pieces. He didn’t know every other bomb in the city had turned off as well, the red lights that signaled detonation having flickered off and disappeared.

All he knew was that the city wasn’t falling in flames.

And it was _supposed to._

_This can’t fail._

_I can’t fail._

Jeremiah pressed the detonator again, his hands trembling so badly he almost dropped the device over the edge of the roof.

Nothing happened.

_No. No no no, this is wrong. This has to work…Bruce has to see, he needs this city to…_

We _need this city to burn down._

_Why isn’t it working?_

He clicked the detonator over and over again, his eyes darting out across the skyline (he saw that damned building again, the one with the old Galavan penthouse, and his gaze narrowed in hatred as he realized it would continue to stand, continue to taunt him with unforgettable memories.)

_Please, please work…_

_I can’t fail again._

_Not like Jerome._

“I hope you don’t take this to heart.” A voice spoke from behind him, and Jeremiah whirled around, nearly falling off the roof in surprise. He stared at the familiar figure of the man who had freed him from Oswald Cobblepot the day before, the one who had offered to work with him to destroy the city.

_Ra’s al Ghul._

_What’s he doing here?_

“You really are admirable in your persistence.” The man strode across the roof with no real hurry, hands clasped behind his back. “Even if you don’t exactly have experience.”

“What do you want?” Jeremiah’s voice shook, and he wished he hadn’t spoken. There was something about the way the man was looking at him that was unnerving.

As if he could read his thoughts. Understand his doubts and fears...

“I suppose you’ve noticed,” he pushed aside a clothesline that was in his way, “that the bombs didn’t go off.”

“ _Obviously._ ” Jeremiah replied between his teeth.

“Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. I would have spared you the humiliation of your plan failing, but I didn’t have the time. You did give this city a rather tight schedule to evacuate.”

_ I didn't have the time... _

His eyes widened. “You’re saying that _you_...”

“Yes, you can blame me for this…what shall we call it? Anticlimax, I suppose? I found your maze design—really, you shouldn’t leave things lying around that apartment when no one’s home—and with a little influence, I allowed the police to find the bombs and cut the sequence before detonation. I wasn’t sure they would make it in time, they are such a moronic lot over there, but it seems that miracles can still occur on occasion.” He smiled.

Jeremiah stepped down from the ledge, glaring furiously at the man. “You ruined everything.” he hissed, stalking toward him. Ra’s al Ghul didn’t back away. “This was supposed to be…”

“Your moment of triumph?” he interrupted, a humorous, condescending edge to his words. “Yes, I know, rather disappointing, wasn’t it? I told you, I’m truly sorry.”

“Bruce was going to—”

“Bruce Wayne was going to do nothing. Nothing except watch from the safety of his own home, helpless, as the city was destroyed. You did knock his motivation down quite a bit with that situation you rigged with Crane.”

“How do you know about that?” Jeremiah wanted to punch the man in the face. If he had just a bit less self-restraint, he might have done just that. “Did you…”

“I’ve been watching you this whole time. How else do you think I could have gotten you out of that mess with Cobblepot? I told you, I see potential. I see power in you, if you would only listen to me.”

“You ruined my plan."

“It was necessary.” Seeing the rage that crossed the boy’s face, Ra’s al Ghul added, “For Bruce Wayne."

Jeremiah paused. “What?"

Ra’s smiled. “I thought that might get your attention.”

He stepped closer, still glaring at the man. “Destroying Gotham was necessary for Bruce. It’s the only way to give him a city he deserves.”

“ _This_ is the city he deserves. It’s his destiny. Without it, where would he be?”

“I was going to make it _better._ He and I…we were going to…”

“Bruce Wayne needs the city as it is.” Ra’s insisted, and Jeremiah threw the detonator to the side with pent-up frustration. It clattered along the concrete ground, rolling up against the wall.

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“It gives him a purpose.” Calmly, the man retrieved the detonator, placing it in his own pocket. “He needs Gotham just as much as it needs him. It’s a facet to who he _is,_ and if you tore it down, he would be lost. You would have torn away a part of _him_ as well. Don’t you see why I couldn’t let you detonate the bombs?”

“But…”

“Gotham is his home. It’s where he needs to be. As Bruce Wayne, and as my heir. You and him are _both_ fated to remain entwined within this city forever.”

Jeremiah supposed that didn’t sound so bad, but then he remembered the context of the conversation. Remembered the bombs that hadn’t gone off. Remembered the plans that were now destroyed.

Remembered Bruce still didn’t see the truth.

“And you shouldn’t worry,” Ra’s continued. “Gotham _will_ fall. That is just as inevitable as ever. No one can truly prevent such an eventuality…we both know this city is corrupt to the bone. But if you destroy it now, Bruce will never have the chance to use this city, in its dying moments, as a way to become something more.” He watched Jeremiah’s face carefully. “Think of it as a _path._ He only needs it for a little while longer until he realizes who he needs to be.”

“And who is that?” Jeremiah asked quietly, his silver eyes boring into the man’s. Ra’s smiled slightly, his voice soft when he spoke but with an undeniable intensity that hung in the air like electricity.

“Gotham’s dark knight.”

There was a silence between them for a moment, then Jeremiah shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to, yet. All you should know is that you have to give Bruce the chance to fulfill his destiny. The city _will_ go down in flames, but not yet. We must orchestrate its downfall carefully, otherwise your friend…my _heir…_ will never realize his full potential. That is why I stopped the bombs from going off, but I could still use your help.”

“Why should I help you, after you ruined my plan?” Jeremiah understood what the man was saying, and he realized now that his own scheme had been terribly faulty, but the humiliation of failing when Gotham had just begun to see him as some sort of powerful being still stung. A lot. “What if I say no?”

“You can, if you want.” Ra’s shrugged. “But if you want Bruce to become who he needs to be, to understand the truth you see, then you would say yes.”

He hesitated. “And your plan is to…?”

“That part comes later. I’ll tell it all to you, in time. In fact, your generator bombs will be very helpful, if you’ll allow me to use them."  
“I thought you weren’t going to destroy the city.”

“I won’t.”

“Then why—“

“You’ll get all the answers you want, Jeremiah. I promise you that. But first, will you accept my offer?”

“To work with you?” He glanced over his shoulder, frowning at the sight of the buildings still standing tall in the darkening light.

“Yes.”

“I…” _He ruined everything you worked for. Made you look like a fool to everyone in Gotham. A failure…no better than Jerome. They’ll all be laughing at you now, and Bruce…_

_You have to think about Bruce._

_What he needs._

He glanced at Ra’s al Ghul, who was silent. _If he’s right…_

If he was right, then Jeremiah had no choice but to follow him.

Because he had to do what _Bruce_ needed.

No matter what it took.

Slowly, trying to control the resentment that was written across his face, Jeremiah nodded. He had to do this…if it was going to help show his friend the truth, help them finally create that bond that existed between them, had _always_ existed…

_It’s for Bruce,_ he reminded himself. _All for Bruce._

_Because nothing else matters._

“Okay.” he said softly, his eyes shining in the growing darkness. “I’ll do it.”

Ra’s al Ghul gave him a benign smile, extending his hand like a businessman sealing a work deal.

“I’m very glad you will.”

\+ + + + + + +

“They’ll be out to get you now.” Jonathan glanced over at his companion uncertainly, having never seen such absolute dejection in one single human being before. Frankly, it was disconcerting. “The GCPD, Arkham, everyone. And the Penguin…he doesn’t seem to be happy about the whole bomb thing. You’re not gonna be safe anywhere.”

Jeremiah didn’t respond. He was staring out the window, eyes vacant. It had been an hour after the failed bombing, and the city was still in disarray, no one sure about what to do next, only knowing that they weren’t dead yet. Jonathan knew Jerome would have loved the chaos of it all, if he had been alive to witness it, but his brother was the opposite.

He didn’t even seem to notice any of it.

“So what exactly happened?” Jonathan wasn’t too pleased at this turn of events either, but he had plenty of experience with the first Valeska he’d met to know it wasn’t safe to get on that family’s nerves. Jeremiah might not have been so wildly unhinged as his twin, but that didn’t make him any more predictable. And even if he wasn’t the biggest threat Jonathan had ever faced, there was no point in antagonizing him right now. Jonathan suspected he would ignore it anyway.

“You obviously didn’t get the bombs to go off,” he continued, kicking his feet up onto the couch. “and now the cops have locked them all up somewhere safe. You’re kind of at a low point here.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Jeremiah snapped, eyes flashing. Jonathan sniffed.

“So you can still talk. That’s nice. What’re you gonna do now that you’ve messed up? You can’t just stand there moping all night, you know.”

Jeremiah didn’t answer, but Jonathan could see the muscles in his jaw twitch as he tried to stifle his helpless anger. The city outside the window was in disarray and chaos, lights flashing and police sirens rising above everything else as the evacuation continued…Gordon wouldn’t call it off until every loose end of the case had been tied up.

But it was still standing.

Still _broken_.

He remembered what Ra’s al Ghul had said about Bruce having to fulfill his destiny, that they had to keep the city the way it was. That it was the only way for the billionaire to become someone new. _But does Bruce really deserve this? All this depravity, all this ugliness?_

_I could have given him something so beautiful._

He didn’t know…he didn’t know anything. He’d only spoken to Bruce once, when they had been in the Wayne Enterprises building, before all of this had begun to happen.

Back when he had been so sure…so very sure that his friend would understand. That he would appreciate what Jeremiah was doing for him.

But now…

_“You have no idea what Bruce Wayne wants. You’re a psycho, and I’ll bet he stopped being your friend a long time ago, or as long as you’ve been like this.”_

He shuddered as he remembered Harvey Bullock’s words. They weren’t true, they weren’t…Bruce would understand eventually, wouldn’t he? He _had_ to. It made perfect sense, why could he see that?

_But if it makes sense, then why did he say no?_

Why _hadn’t_ Bruce agreed to his plan?

Jeremiah had been so careful to make sure everything would work, to make sure Bruce would get what was best for _him,_ what _he_ wanted…

_“Bruce Wayne wants nothing to do with you.”_

Would Bruce really not have wanted the city destroyed? Would it really have made him angry?

He remembered the way Bruce had looked at him in the nightmare he’d had. Angry, full of hatred, _hurt._ He’d been _disappointed_.

It was the same way Bruce had looked at him when they’d stood in Wayne Enterprises. The same look he’d given Jeremiah when the latter had explained his plan.

_He was disappointed._

_Disappointed in you._

_He doesn’t want you to do this. He never did._

Jeremiah wrapped his arms around himself, shutting his eyes as he continued to stand by the window. “He wants this.” he whispered to himself, and Jonathan looked up.

“What are you mumbling about? Also, do you realize that you have no security here whatsoever? No guards, no decoys...hell, not even a lock on the door. The cops could barge in at any second, and—”

_But what if he doesn’t want it? What if this isn’t the way he wants to fix the city? What if he had other plans?_

_What if you’re ruining everything?_

Even if the bombs hadn’t gone off, Jeremiah had still _intended_ for them to. He’d tried to destroy Gotham.

Thinking all the while that _Bruce_ was the one who had misunderstood.

_What if it was you the whole time?_

_What if you were wrong?_

If this really was all for Bruce, and if Bruce didn’t _want_ it…

_That can’t be right. You thought this through so carefully…you were so certain everything would go according to plan…_

_Your perfectly rational, sane,_ normal _plan…_

But Bruce still hadn’t wanted to see his city burn down.

_You were wrong. This whole time, you’ve been wrong._

_Everything you did…Bruce didn’t want it to happen. You weren’t helping him. You were trying so hard to be better than Jerome, to show_ Gotham _you were better than Jerome, that you didn’t realize that._

How could he have never understood that until now?

Jervis Tetch walked into the apartment, depositing his top hat on the kitchen table. “It looks as if we will have to reevaluate our plan.” he said dismally, and Jonathan rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, as soon as drama queen here stops bitching around and actually gets to work.” He really didn’t care if he was annoying Jeremiah anymore…not when _he_ was equally annoyed at their so-called leader’s lack of action. “He’s been feeling sorry for himself and staring out the window for an hour, so no help there.”

Jeremiah ignored him. His thoughts were reeling with the sudden realization that had crossed his mind. The realization that maybe _he_ had been wrong, not Bruce, and that maybe he had just ruined everything that had ever existed between them. Their years of friendship, everything they had been thought together, everything Bruce had done for him…

Had he destroyed all that?

_It can’t be too late. It can’t. You have to find him before he leaves you forever…you have to explain this to him. Maybe say it was the toxin or…or something. Let him believe it drove you a little insane, even. Not as much as Jerome, obviously. Never that, of course…but whatever it takes._

_Whatever it takes to get him back._

_To be your friend again._

_Forever._

“I’m leaving.” he said abruptly, turning away from the window. Jonathan and Jervis both looked at him, eyebrows raised.

_“What?”_ Jonathan squawked, sitting bolt upright. “That leaves _us_ to clean up after everything you’ve done!”

“Not leaving _Gotham_ , stupid.” Jeremiah glared. “I just…have something I need to do.”

_I need to talk to Bruce._

“You realize that basically everyone in the city wants to kill you now, right?” Jonathan pointed out. “You really think—”

“I don’t care.” he interrupted, shrugging on his jacket and pulling the gloves back onto his hands. “It doesn’t matter.”

“God, you’re such an idiot.” Jonathan sighed, flopping back down onto the couch. “You’ve got the self-preservation skills of a baby deer, take one step out that door and you’ll be dead before you hit the ground. I don't think you’re grasping the fact that you’re just as bad as either of us now,” he nodded over at Jervis, “when it comes to terrorizing Gotham. Maybe worse.”

“I wouldn’t say worse…” Jervis cut in, intent on defending his title of being one of Gotham’s most feared criminals, but Jonathan waved him away.

“The point being, everyone hates you. And who can blame them? You caused a lot of problems.”

“I’m still going.” Jeremiah insisted stubbornly, pushing past Jervis, who still stood in the middle of the room, fiddling with his pocket watch. Jonathan got up from the couch.

“Is this about Bruce Wayne again? Because if I’m being honest, it’s getting really tiresome, hearing you talk about him all day, all the time. Why don’t you find something else to obsess over?”

“You’re missing the point.” he said irately, not wanting to talk to Jonathan when he needed to see Bruce, needed to tell him…

Tell him what?

That he had accidentally destroyed everything between them?

_If that’s what happened…_

_Does that mean you really are insane?_

_Did the toxin…did Jerome win?_

He didn’t want to think about that right now. Or ever.

“I think I have a very good understanding of the point." Jonathan retorted, tossing his burlap mask at Jeremiah, who ducked and caught it, throwing it back at him. Jervis, caught in the crossfire, sighed. “But obviously you’re not going to listen to me because you think you're too good for advice.”

“I just want to..."

“Just go, get outta here.” Jonathan waved him away. Jeremiah looked like he was about to say something sarcastic, but remained silent. As he was about to open the door, he hear something slide across the ground and knock against the wall. He glanced down to see a scratched, dented pistol, and looked back at Jonathan.

“What's this for?”

“Like I said, everyone wants to kill you now. You’re safer if you’ve got a weapon.”

“I’m just going to Wayne Manor, I don’t need…”

“It’s not going to _hurt_ you.” Jonathan snapped. “Unless you accidentally shoot yourself in the foot or something. That would be really painful." He contemplated the possibility for a moment. "Hey, you ever gotten shot before?”

Jeremiah narrowed his eyes at him, but he wasn’t going to argue the point right now. Not when he needed to fine Bruce before it was too late for them both. “Fine. I’ll take it. And yes, I have.” He stooped to pick up the pistol, ignoring Jonathan’s look of surprise, then opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

“I’m gonna need that full story later!” Jonathan hollered after him. “So don’t die if you can help it.”

Jeremiah ignored him, slamming the door behind him and disappearing down the hall and around the corner.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

Xander Wilde.

He remembered when tried to condition himself to respond to that name and that name only. When he’d been eleven years old, wearing too-big glasses and never going anywhere without his notebook filled with mazes pressed to his chest. When he’d done everything in his power— _what power? That was the cause for everything…you never had power in the first place_ —to trick the world into believing his new identity as well, because if they did, maybe Jeremiah could too.

He remembered when he'd been a scared, cowering child _(and how are you different now, how has any of that changed? Look what you’ve become and try to believe you’re not that same person)_ willing to do anything to hide from who he was. Anything to deny the insanity that was chasing him down relentlessly, and it wasn’t just Jerome.

It was never just Jerome.

It was his own mind.

_All you ever did was delay everything for a little while longer. And you let yourself be broken in the process._

He remembered standing on this very doorstep, so many years ago. His heart pounding in his chest, shifting his feet back and forth on the stones as he nervously waited, staring up at the manor that loomed above him. Not knowing anything about Bruce Wayne, or what he would be like. 

Scared out of his mind.

And now he was here again, and even though more than three long years had passed, even though he _wasn’t_ that boy anymore, he was no longer hiding behind the mask of lies, he felt the same way he had that day. Frightened, uncertain of what would happen.

His heart aching with the desire for someone to care about him, but not willing to let himself believe in it.

Everything had changed.

But somehow, nothing _really_ had.

Jeremiah chewed his lower lip, shoving the pistol into his jacket pocket. He wished he hadn’t brought it; it was nonsensical, bringing a _weapon_ to see his friend. As if he needed to defend himself against Bruce…when Bruce was the only person in the world he’d ever fully trusted. 

_What have we become?_

_How did it happen?_

There was no point in asking that question anymore. Not when he knew the answer.

He just didn’t want to admit that he knew.

The front door was unlocked, standing ajar as Jeremiah stared hollowly at the foyer beyond. He was surprised that Bruce hadn’t bothered to lock it, but then, he was likely preoccupied. Of course he was…his best friend had been planning on destroying the city.

_If I could ever still be your best friend._

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…_

Hesitantly, just as he had three years ago, Jeremiah stepped inside. _You’re no better than you ever were before._

_You haven’t changed._

_Not the way you should have._

The lights were off, and Alfred was nowhere in sight. Jeremiah supposed that was a good thing…the butler was a trained bodyguard, and after the incident with the bombs, botched or not…

_I’m sorry, Bruce._

_Please don’t be mad at me._

He shut the door softly behind him, the sound reverberating quietly in the still air. The shadows around him seemed to flicker and draw closer, and Jeremiah swallowed a nervous laugh. 

_You’re not supposed to laugh. That’s what Jerome would have done. You’re not Jerome, you never were. You don’t have to become like him._

He shook his head numbly.

_You really haven’t changed at all, have you?_

The house was silent, and he wondered if anyone was even here. But they had to be…where else was there to go? When…when _he_ was the one who had threatened to tear down the city?

No, Bruce was here, there was no question about it.

And Jeremiah wasn’t going to run away from this. 

He glanced up when he heard the murmur of voices break the quiet and saw a sliver of light shining from under the study door. His footsteps muffled by the carpet, he tentatively stepped closer, wishing he had planned this better. He hadn’t wanted anyone else around…this was between him and Bruce only. It always had been.

_But you can't go back now._

He could make out what the voices were saying now, snatches of words coming from the other side of the door, which sat partway open. Jeremiah paused, something in the back of his mind whispering that he _did_ have the pistol with him in case he needed it.

_In case I need it? What would I need it for?_

His eyes traveled to the portrait that hung on the wall. He’d seen it a million times in the past, had memorized every detail of each face with meticulous attention. Bruce and his parents, smiling at the camera.

He remembered asking Bruce about it the first day he’d ever been at the manor.

_“You all look so happy.”_

They still did.

Because they had each other. 

They were _family._

_“Do you remember your own family?”_

Jeremiah shivered at the memory, feeling like he was fifteen years old again and looking nervously over at Bruce, wondering how he would keep up the facade that hid Jerome and his connection to his brother from the world. 

Before he’d known he could trust…he could _always_ trust…Bruce.

And he knew Bruce would understand now. He would have to understand. Because that was what he always did.

Jeremiah rested his hand on the doorknob, pausing when he heard the voices inside the study more clearly now. He recognized the other voice as Selina, and bitter anger rushed through him.

_She stopped Bruce from seeing the truth._

Even if Jeremiah _had_ been wrong, had misunderstood what Bruce really wanted, he’d still had a chance to make his friend join him. It would have made everything easier, and Selina had ruined it.

He drew a deep breath, barely noticing the way his hand closed around the pistol in his pocket.

_Don’t think about that right now._

He didn't have time to think about it in any case, because Selina’s next words made his heart still in his chest and eyes go wide with shock.

“He’s not your friend anymore.”

Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stared out the window at the still night. “I know. I can’t let…it can’t be like that. I can’t trick him into believing we’re still friends, not after what’s happened.”

Jeremiah stared at the two figures on the couch, facing away from him, unable to move or think. 

Bruce wasn’t saying that, he wasn’t. It was some malicious hallucination or something of the sort…it had to be. They _were_ friends, they were best friends, and nothing would stand in the way of that. It _couldn’t._

Nothing, and no one.

Not even Selina.

_She’s always ruining everything for you._

_Always getting between you and Bruce._

_And he…_

_He’s going to end up caring for her more than he ever did for you. There’s no way around it. That’s what he’s going to do._

“I’m sorry, Bruce.” Selina was saying, and Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed hatefully.

_You’re not sorry._

_You just want him for yourself._

_You backstabbing…_

“It’s not your fault.” Bruce murmured. “He made his decisions. I only wish I could have stopped him. Maybe…maybe even brought him back in time.”

“Bruce, there’s nothing left to bring back. He’s not the same as he used to be. We all used to be friends, remember? Things used to be…well, almost normal. But look at him now. He’s _not_ the same person. He's become like Jerome.”

Jeremiah didn’t hear Bruce’s response. His vision swam, and everything felt very cold all of a sudden. Why had he come here? What had he expected? That Bruce would welcome him back, forget everything that had happened in just the past day alone? 

_It’s too late for you._

_“He’s become like Jerome…”_

He clutched the doorframe tightly, head aching. The walls seemed to close in around him, trapping him in a tiny cell of darkness, locking him away…

He saw Jerome in the basement of the penthouse, dragging him along behind, saw the shadowy room in the corner and felt the same shot of terror running through him.

_Trapped…_

_I’m not like him, I’m not like him, Bruce knows that, he has to…_

"Why do you think he’s so obsessed with you?” Even in the dim light, Jeremiah saw Selina move closer to Bruce. His shoulders stiffened.

_Get away from him._

“He wants to draw out the darkness in both of us.” Bruce said quietly. “He knows it's there, and maybe he thought if he gave me as bad a day as _he_ had, when this all started happening, I would allow it to take over. Give me the same thing that happened to him, because that was what made _him_ accept his own darkness.”

“So he thinks you’re insane, too.”

Bruce sighed. “He thinks I have potential to become like him.”

“And he just thought one bad day would be enough to make you snap?”

“Maybe it is.” Bruce's voice was quiet. “Maybe, if I wanted to give in, it would have been enough to drive me mad.”

“But you didn't want to. And you're as sane as you ever were.” Selina’s words were firm. Reassuring.

To Jeremiah, they felt like a stab in the heart.

Bruce was saying something, but Jeremiah didn’t pay attention. One hand was pressed to the side of his head, fingers clutching his hair as he tried to keep his thoughts from unraveling. Trying to hold onto the sanity he knew he still possessed...of _course_ he was sane, it was _obvious,_ but somehow he felt like it was slipping away from him now, no matter what he did, replaced with a turbulent, undefinable darkness.

_Is this what it feels like to go crazy?_

_How much of that sanity was real in the first place?_

He wanted to run away and forget he’d heard any of this, pretend that everything _could_ still be all right, but he knew it couldn’t. And he knew he could forget none of it. 

_“I wish I could have stopped him. Brought him back in time.”_

That meant Bruce thought it was too late for them now.

Too late for Jeremiah to be his friend.

His _family._

_Bruce, you can’t think that. You’re all I have left, you’re all I’ve ever had. You have to understand, you have to. It’s not too late for us…please, please say it’s not too late. Please don’t give up on me._

But he knew Bruce wouldn’t.

Bruce believed he had lost his mind.

And Jeremiah realized, with a creeping coldness rushing over him, that he was starting to believe it too.

If his best friend couldn’t have faith in his sanity, then how was _he_ supposed to? He’d always looked to Bruce for reassurance, but now that was gone. 

Now he was had nowhere to turn.

_It’s Selina's fault. She’s been plotting this. Tricking him into believing it so she can have him to herself. She wants to get rid of you. She’s been trying for a long time. It’s all come to this._

_It’s her fault._

_Her fault, her fault, her fault…_

_You have to get rid of her. You have to show Bruce she’s nothing important. That he doesn’t need anything but you. Not this city, not Selina, not anyone._

_Just you._

He’d forgotten why he’d come to the manor, forgotten that he'd wanted to tell Bruce how sorry he was for misunderstanding what he needed. How he’d only wanted what was best for his friend…

Those thoughts had been the final tiny glimpses of light that remained in his thoughts, the last shards of rationale and sanity that Jeremiah had staunchly clung to even as everything else was broken down around him. The thought that maybe Bruce could forgive him for all this, that maybe they could still be friends in some way, somehow…

Now it was all gone.

Gone forever, and this time, there really was nothing holding him back from the edge.

_"Tell me what you want us to be.”_

He heard Bruce’s voice from his nightmare, saw the shadows playing across his friend's face as he looked down at Jeremiah, and he was _falling_ now, and Bruce wasn't helping him, wasn't going to save him because he didn't care anymore, because he _wasn’t_ his friend, and he was going to let him fall into that darkness below, wherever it led…

_“You’ve proved to everyone what they’ve believed all along.”_

_"All I wanted was to be connected to you..."_

But everyone was trying to drive them apart, the world was against them, no one _wanted_ them to be friends, and Jeremiah would be alone again, he was always alone…

_“Forever.”_

"Maybe he senses that potential.” Bruce was saying softly. Jeremiah gritted his teeth.

“Well, you proved him wrong.” Selina whispered, leaning closer in to him. Their lips met, and Jeremiah could almost _feel_ the final restraints of sanity snap in his mind as everything came crashing down.

_She’s really going to steal him away._

_But she can't, she can’t do that, she can’t._

_Because he’s mine, he’s always been mine, he belongs to me, we belong to each other, we need each other, I’m..._

_I’m what he needs._

_Without me…_

_Without me, he’s…_

_“You proved him wrong.”_

Jeremiah stepped inside the study, a faint breath of laughter quivering on his lips although his eyes were cold and merciless. 

Bruce was going to _understand._

There would be nothing left to hinder him from embracing his own darkness.

He’d said it himself, he had _potential._ He _could_ become who he was meant to be.

But first, everything else had to be taken away.

Jeremiah would make sure of that.

_Selina doesn’t deserve him. All she’s ever tried to do is push us apart. Steal Bruce away. Take him for her own._

_She can’t have him…she can’t._

_I hate her._

He stepped closer to the couch, his shadow falling over them in the dim lighting of the study. His gaze flickered to the chess board sitting on the table in front of them, noticing one of the knights was on the wrong square. The one Bruce had been holding earlier that evening as he’d spoken to Selina while they waited for the city to be destroyed, although Jeremiah didn’t know that.

Ra’s al Ghul’s words whispered themselves back to him.

_“Gotham’s dark knight.”_

_No one has proved me wrong. I’ll show them all. I’ll help Bruce become who he needs to be._

_There’s still time._

_I was never wrong._

“To be fair,” his voice was calm, distant. As if he wasn't really here. As if he didn’t care, although he did. Deeply. More than _Selina_ could ever care.

He watched as she scrambled to her feet, spinning around to face him with wide eyes. Bruce froze in place, staring at Jeremiah as confusion and doubt filled his expression.

Jeremiah lifted the pistol in his hand, pressing it to Selina’s abdomen without a second thought, his fingers curled around the handle tightly.

_She doesn’t deserve Bruce._

_But she deserves this._

“The day’s not over yet.” 

He pulled the trigger, and the sound of the shot echoed through the silent house as Selina staggered backward, tripping on the table as the chess pieces scattered across the floor of the study.

\+ + + + + + +

Jonathan woke up groggily as he heard a measured knock on the apartment door. Shaking his hair out of his face, he sat up, nearly tripping over the wrinkled pile of ties that had been deposited on the floor during the last few days as he stumbled through the darkened room.

“I gave you the keys to this place, dumbass.” he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he scrabbled around to find the lock. When the door swung open, he glared. “Seriously, can’t you just…” He paused, one eyebrow raising as he surveyed the unfamiliar figure outside. “You’re not Jeremiah.”

“How observant of you.” The man cast a critical eye at Jonathan, who reached for a vial of fear toxin sitting on a side table. 

“Who are you, what do you want, and why are you here? Answer in that order.” He punctuated each question with a shake of the unopened toxin, mentally promising himself that if this guy was with the cops, he would be having some strong words with Jeremiah when he saw him next. If he ended up going back to Arkham because that little twerp hadn’t bothered to even get decent security in their makeshift hideaway, things were not going to go well for him.

“No need to worry, I’m not affiliated with the police.” the man smiled, and Jonathan’s eyes narrowed even more, wondering how his thoughts had bee interpreted so accurately. It was kind of spooky. And he still didn’t know who the man was.

“Okay, then what are you doing here?”

Jervis materialized from the kitchen, stepping up behind Jonathan and digging his pocket watch out of his coat in case hypnosis would be required in this instance. The man looked at them both for a long moment.

“I’d like you to imagine something.” Jonathan opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark, but the man shook his head. “Just listen, and I will explain everything. Imagine you both had control over your own portion of the city. You could do whatever you wanted, and no one would dare to defy you. Not even Arkham or the GCPD could do anything to contain you to their prisons…you would rule part of Gotham all on your own. Each of you. What would you say to that prospect?”

“I’d say you should go turn _yourself_ in at Arkham, because you’re crazy.” Jonathan replied. From behind him, Jervis added,

“And why would you make such a suggestion to us in the first place?”

“Because if you join me, it can become a reality.” The man’s dark eyes gleamed. “Assist me in my endeavor, and you will have more power than you have ever known.”

“First of all,” Jonathan tossed the fear toxin vial to the side, “you might not have gotten the memo, but this is the twentieth century and no one talks like that. So I don’t know what your problem is, but no one’s going to take you seriously.” Completely blind to the fact he was lecturing an ancient and slightly inhuman entity on speech patterns, he continued, “And secondly, why are you asking us? On that note, why is _everyone_ coming to us for help? We’re not errand boys for doing the dirty work.”

“I would never dream of asking you to do dirty work.” the man replied quickly. “In fact, your task would be minuscule if you did agree to join me. But even if that _were_ the case, the results would be worth it.”

“You still haven’t answered the question. Why are you asking us?” Jervis piped up. The man smiled again.

“I heard you were working for Jeremiah Valeska.”

“For him? Look,” Jonathan lounged against the doorframe, stabbing a finger against the man’s chest to emphasize his point, “that kid would be dead in a ditch if he hadn’t asked _us_ to help _him._ I dunno where Jerome got his street smarts, cause his brother is a dope. So if you think we’re working _for_ him—”

“He did succeed in forcing the police into giving an evacuation order for the entire city.”

“Yeah, and then none of his bombs went off. He’s new to this, and too ambitious.”

“But I’m sure you see the potential.” the man countered, and Jonathan shrugged. “At least he _has_ ambition.”

“Oh sure, if you count being weirdly obsessed with Bruce Wayne as ambition.” He hesitated, suddenly remembering he didn’t know who this man was. “Hey, why are we talking about Jeremiah anyway?”

“Because he has agreed to help me create a new Gotham. And if the both of you join us, then you will have everything I just promised you. Ruling over your own section of the city—”

“A new Gotham? That was the whole plan behind Jeremiah’s bomb thing, and he failed. Why would he work with you?”

“Because I have shown him that his plan was faulty. It was hastily contrived and built on his unconscious desire to be better than his brother. He didn’t see the greater picture, but now that he understands, he has agreed to join forces. So may I consider you both involved as well?”

Jonathan glanced back at Jervis, considering the offer. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Ra’s al Ghul.” the man replied without hesitation. 

“Huh.” He tapped his fingers against the doorframe, thinking, then shrugged again. “Okay. If Jeremiah’s in, then I guess we’ll do it. But only if you can guarantee we each get our own part of the city to do whatever we want with.”

“Of course.” Ra’s answered smoothly. He knew that would be easy enough…once Gotham had been plunged into anarchy—of _his_ doing of course, perfectly set up and not anything like Jeremiah’s half-formed plan with the maze bombs—it could be divided up easily enough. “Now, there’s no time to lose, so if you could kindly come with me…”

“What exactly are you having us do?” Jervis cut in, searching around the dim apartment for his top hat.

“Not much. All I need is the generator bombs, the ones the GCPD currently has locked away, to be collected and brought to each of the bridges that lead out of the city. I’ll take command from there.”

Jonathan wasn’t one to trust easily, and he trusted this man about as far as he could throw him. He only had the stranger’s word that Jeremiah had agreed to work with him, and he had no reassurance that they would get what they wanted. But he also had enough faith in his and Jervis’s abilities to get out of any situation, and he wasn’t worried. If things went south, they could escape. And if this man was telling the truth…

Well, there was no foreseeable downside to being in command of his own portion of Gotham, was there? After what had happened with the bombs…or what _hadn’t_ happened, rather…he was willing to move on.

So he picked up his burlap mask, checking to make sure it was fully stocked with ample dosages of fear toxin, and nodded at the man outside the door.

“Let’s go.”

\+ + + + + + +

It was strange, how time seemed to stand still. How a mere five seconds had passed and it felt like hours—years—as he stood motionless in the study of Wayne Manor, clutching the pistol in his hand as he watched Bruce scramble to his feet, rushing to Selina without even a glance at Jeremiah. 

As if he wasn’t even there.

He found that even if he had _wanted_ to move, he couldn’t…everything was numb and fading in and out and he could only watch silently, unable to think. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he felt a sort of triumph, a bitter victory over the one person who had been keeping him from Bruce for so long. Maybe now that she was out of the way, Bruce would finally see what he needed to.

But Bruce didn’t even seem to notice Jeremiah.

_I’m here, I’m right here, why don’t you see me? I freed you, Bruce, I’m giving you everything you need to become Gotham’s dark knight just like you know you want to be, because it’s your destiny, isn’t it, so why won’t you thank me? Why won’t you do that, at least?_

And then Bruce _did_ look at him, glanced back over his shoulder with wide, horrified eyes, searching for answers as he stared at Jeremiah for the briefest of seconds before turning away again. 

Jeremiah felt his heart stop.

Even as Bruce turned his back on him, he could still see his eyes, his friend’s dark eyes that had bored into him with a furious, blazing anger he’d never, ever seen before.

He didn’t look like _Bruce_ anymore.

But strangely, horribly, he _did._

It was the same look Bruce…the Bruce in his nightmare…had given him as Jeremiah had fallen off the edge, the same look of pure _hatred_ that Jeremiah had been more afraid of than anything…more afraid of it than falling, than losing his mind, than anything in the world.

_He hates you._

_He hates you he hates you he hates you…_

_No, he can’t, you showed him he needs to leave everything else behind, he should be grateful, he should be thanking you, it’s the only way for him…for both of you…to become who you need to be, why doesn’t he see that?_

_He hates you._

He reached out a faltering hand, not sure what he was grasping at, but unconsciously hoping that Bruce would turn back to him and that hatred would be gone, that he would _understand,_ that they could be together now…

_You can’t let Selina get in your way, Bruce, you can’t…_

_I hate her, and that means you have to, too._

_Because we’re connected. We’re the same. Don’t you see that? We’ve always been the same, always…you can’t hide from that, you can’t run from it. No matter what you do, you can’t escape it, because it’s true._

_“If you’d just been able to admit what I see so clearly, then we wouldn’t have to do this.”_

Jerome’s words, long-forgotten, suppressed to the back of his memory because they were too painful to think about, came crashing back to his consciousness, and Jeremiah sucked in a sharp breath. 

_No._

_This isn’t like that._

_Jerome was lying, because he and I…we were never truly the same. I was never like him, I wasn’t insane._

_This is different…Bruce has to see that._ You _have to see it. This is nothing like Jerome, nothing like he ever said, because you_ know _you and Bruce are connected. He knows it, too. Everyone does, he just refuses to see it!_

_“You and I are bound together. Identical. In every way.”_

He wanted Bruce to turn back to him, wanted to see the hatred cleared away, wanted everything to be how it was supposed to be…why did it have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t he just…

His thoughts were abruptly cut off as he was slammed to the ground, the breath knocked out of him as he hit the floor, staring up at the familiar face of Alfred above him. 

_Great, now he’s gonna kill you…_

_Before we can work any of this out, before Bruce can see…_

_Why can’t they all just leave us alone? Let us be who we have to become? There’s no hiding the inevitable, why don’t they simply accept it as fate?_

_Why does everyone want to keep us apart?_

When a well-trained, lethally powerful blow to the side of his face caused his vision to black out for a moment, Jeremiah kept his expression stoic, impassive. He couldn’t let anyone see the betrayal he felt, the confusion as to why Bruce refused to accept the truth. The pain that came from his friend ignoring everything that had been right in front of him the whole time.

_What’s it going to take for you to see?_

_When are you going to admit that there_ is _a connection?_

_You have to, Bruce._

_You have to._

Black spots danced in front of his eyes as the butler landed another solid punch to his face, and Jeremiah felt his consciousness wavering. He barely registered the pain at all…he was too preoccupied with the thought that Bruce might never acknowledge their connection, and he didn’t know what he would do if that happened. He wouldn’t know anything, because Bruce was the only thing that mattered to him, and if he lost his best friend, he would truly be alone. 

He _couldn’t_ be alone.

Alfred dragged him up by his collar, and Jeremiah’s head lolled to the side like a ragdoll, unable to focus his stare on the butler and not caring in the least.

_You can’t leave me Bruce, you can’t you can’t you can’t…_

“I’m going to make you _pay_ for that.” the man snapped, and Jeremiah’s expression _did_ change then, his hazy eyes widened and his mouth split into a hateful grin. The choked semblance of a laugh caught in his throat and the butler’s face twisted in revulsion.

“You _won't.”_ Jeremiah rasped, spitting out blood. He knew it was true…no matter what Alfred or anyone else did, it wouldn’t compare to the torture of knowing Bruce would never willingly accept the truth. There was nothing worse than that, and he didn’t care what anyone else did to him. What did it matter? 

“I can bloody well try.” Alfred retorted, and Jeremiah laughed again, chancing a look over at Bruce, who was holding onto Selina and not looking at _him_ at all, and that _hurt,_ it hurt more than anything because Jeremiah had tried to hard to make everything perfect for Bruce, tried to make _Gotham_ perfect for him…for _them…_ and none of it seemed to matter.

_Why don’t you understand, just for once?_

_Just once, Bruce?_

He didn’t have any longer to ask himself or Bruce that question, because there was a final blow to his temple and everything faltered and then went completely dark.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

“What the ever loving shit?” Jonathan groaned exaggeratedly, pressing a hand to the side of his face in despair. “How stupid do you have to be to leave the house for _five seconds_ and end up locked in the GCPD by the next morning?”

“He only wanted to see Bruce Wayne.” Ecco staunchly defended her friend, and Jonathan snorted.

“Oh, I know, when does he _not_ want to see Bruce Wayne? Well, seeing Bruce Wayne may have just gotten him a death sentence.”

Ecco’s eyes widened and her forehead lined with worry. “They can’t kill him…” 

“Nah, the cops can’t, but they’ll send him to Arkham. And I’m telling you, anyone there’ll take one look at your little buddy and it’s curtains for him. Really sucks for him, too. I was kind of hoping he’d figure himself out and actually do something worthwhile.” Jonathan didn’t say it aloud, but Jeremiah’s arrest also meant their plan with Ra’s al Ghul would come screeching to a halt… _He really does have the worst timing,_ the former Arkham inmate thought.

“Then we have to get him out.” Ecco said decidedly. Jonathan raised an eyebrow at her.

“Sure, you go ahead. You’re both a couple of looney birds, Arkham will be glad to have you. Just don’t expect me or Jervis to come bail you out.”

She hesitated, the analytical side of her brain that still vaguely worked resurfacing for a moment. She knew she couldn’t help Jeremiah escape on her own, and that the GCPD would be heavily guarded for quite a long while after the bomb threat. Besides, the evacuation order was still in place, which meant there were nearly double the amount of officers swarming the precinct, and probably would be for at least a week until everything quieted down again. 

Ecco, along with Jonathan and Jervis, hadn’t been enlightened on the details of Ra’s al Ghul’s plan that he had recruited their help for.

But of course, she couldn’t leave him there. Although she’d never had the chance—or the courage, she admitted to herself—to outright tell her former employer that she loved him, she could at least look out for him as often as possible. And the thought of him locked up in that police station, kept behind bars as the entire world went on outside, made her heart ache.

He didn’t deserve that.

“I should at least try…” she said slowly, as Jervis walked in, dusting off his plaid jacket and examining his ever-present hat. “He’s…I’ve always been there for him.”

“Well, that explains how he’s managed to stay alive up till this point.” Jonathan chortled unsympathetically. “Have fun. Tell him hi for me, and that I told him he’d get in trouble if he left.”

Ecco sighed, tucking a pistol into her belt, just as someone knocked on the door. Jervis went to answer it, and Jonathan buried his head under the pillow on the couch.

“Why are we still sitting around in this place that _everyone_ in the city seems to know about by now?” 

He shot up again when a familiar voice spoke, maddeningly unflustered as ever. “I heard what happened. Inconvenient, isn’t it?”

Jonathan gave Ra’s al Ghul a long-suffering look, wondering how many times he would show up at their door before he got the hint that he was unwelcome, all offers for ruling Gotham aside. “You’re inconvenient.”

“Don’t worry, this doesn’t hinder anything too badly.” the man said, ignoring his comment. He stepped inside, the dust from his boots falling onto the carpet, much to Jonathan's horror. “In fact, it may work out in our favor. But I’ll need your help to keep things on schedule.”

“It's funny how that works.” Jonathan retorted sarcastically. “You’ve been _needing our help_ quite a bit for someone who has everything under control. Makes a guy think maybe this plan wasn't so great after all. And maybe we won't exactly get what you promised.”

“You'll get exactly what I promised you. No deceit, no tricks. But when it’s a plan of these proportions, everything must be kept running smoothly. I can’t do that on my own, capable as I may be.”

“Clearly.”

“If either of you want your portion of Gotham to rule over,” his eyes darted back and forth between Jervis and Jonathan, “I would suggest listening to what I say. And if _you_ want to see Jeremiah again,” he turned to Ecco now, who nodded mutely, “you will, too.”

Jonathan ran a hand through his tangled hair. "Okay, do what do you want us to do?"

"Go to the bridges." Ra's al Ghul glanced out the window, watching the scattered Gothamites outside on the streets. The sun streamed in, silhouetting his figure as if he were no more than a shadow or a ghost standing in the middle of the apartment. Jonathan suppressed a shudder at the thought. "Make sure the bombs are in place and that no one sees you. Then wait for my signal." He turned back to them, a smile crossing his face.

"It shouldn't be a long time coming."

\+ + + + + + +

Consciousness began swimming back into existence in his brain when he heard the distant, echoing clang of a metal door being shut. For a moment, he panicked, thinking he was back in the cell beneath the Galavan penthouse, locked away in the darkness until Jerome came back for him, and bolted upright, eyes wide and staring. He couldn’t see anything at first, with his senses still needing time to come back to life, and he felt something pulling on his wrists, preventing him from moving more than a few inches. 

_What’s he done to you now, what’s he going to…_

He heard laughter coming from somewhere and flinched away from it, primal fear instincts overtaking any semblance of dignity he wanted to retain. Jerome was back, he was _here,_ and who knew what he had planned, what he was going to do, and Jeremiah wasn’t going to be able to escape from him…

There was a sharp sting to the side of his face, which brought him back to his senses, and his eyes finally started to focus as he noticed a man sitting in front of him, stitching up a gash on his cheekbone. The first pieces of memory began placing themselves in order, and Jeremiah shuddered as the images from the night before flashed in his mind’s eye. 

_Selina…_

He heard the sound of a gunshot.

_She was in the way…she needed to…you needed to get rid of her. For Bruce. He needed to see that he had to leave everything behind…_

_But he was angry with you…why was he so angry? Why did he…_

_Oh, right. You shot his girlfriend. Killed her, maybe._

_Hopefully._

He winced as the man, who was dressed in a GCPD medic uniform, stabbed the needle into the side of his face again. He tried to swat the stranger away, but his hands were cuffed behind him and could do nothing but strain against the cold metal. 

_And then Alfred…_

He remembered now, and part of him wished he didn’t. He didn’t want to think about the way Bruce had looked at him with that darkness…that _hatred…_ in his eyes, the way he’d wanted to explain it all, which had been difficult when he was getting beaten up within an inch of his life, and knowing that even if he had explained it, it would have made no difference. Because Bruce still wouldn’t understand, he wouldn’t see that this was all for him and that it _needed_ to be done, no matter what Jeremiah did. 

_But we all need you. We need what you’ll become. Gotham needs you, everyone needs…I need you._

He tried to twist out of the man’s grasp, but he leaned closer, turning so Jeremiah could see his face, and the latter froze. He blinked, realizing he could barely open his eyes due to the dark bruises that swelled up around them. “What’re you—”

“Don’t talk, they’ll hear you.” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice was low as he re-threaded the needle he held. “Before you ask, no, I’m not here to help you escape.”

“Where are we?” he whispered, ignoring the man’s order to not speak. His voice wobbled and dizziness rushed through him, but he kept his eyes as focused as he could on his companion in front of him.

“The police station. You’re in a holding cell.” He began stitching again, and Jeremiah jerked away. “If you stayed still, this would go by faster.”

“Can you—ow—maybe stop?” he hissed between his teeth, closing his eyes. The man shrugged.

“If you’d prefer to go around with your face split open for the next few weeks, be my guest.”

Opening one eye just long enough to give him a poisonous glare, Jeremiah muttered, “So why are you here? And why haven't they caught you?”

He gestured to his uniform. “I know a bit more about subtlety than you do, my boy. And in any case, they’ve got other things to worry about. The evacuation is still under way.”

“Okay, but _why_ are you here?” he asked again, determined to get some sort of answer. Ra’s al Ghul paused for a moment.

“To give you instructions on what to do, of course.”

“How to get out?” He tested the cuffs around his wrists again, but they were still locked. “I’m kind of…”

“No, not exactly. Not yet, anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder inconspicuously to ensure no one was listening in. “We will still proceed with our plan, but with a few new details. You don’t really need to know them all right now. The only thing you have to do is get Bruce Wayne to come here.”

“ _Here?_ To the GCPD? How the hell do you think I could—”

“You’re smart, I’m sure you’ll think of a way.” He got to his feet, picking up the key ring for the cell locks. Jeremiah eyed it, wondering for a moment if he could wrangle his way out of the handcuffs and make a break for freedom. Seeing his expression, Ra’s al Ghul shook his head. “I need you here. You’re going to bring me Bruce Wayne.”

“Hey, I’m not—”

“It will all work out in the end, and you’ll get what you want. Why shouldn’t you trust me? You know my plans work perfectly.”

“Yeah, because you ruined _mine.”_

“It was flawed.”

“Shut up.”

The man gave him a patronizing smile. “I’ll be leaving now. Try not to provoke Gordon, he’s on Bruce’s side regarding this situation, obviously.”

Jeremiah tensed. “…Gordon?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Ra’s backed toward the cell door, searching for the proper key. “You never killed him in the first place.”

Leaving Jeremiah to process that new piece of information, he turned away and stepped out, locking the door behind him. Jeremiah stared through the bars as he left, his mind racing. 

_Gordon’s alive?_

_But I…didn’t he…no, he was supposed to have died. He had to die, so Bruce wouldn’t have anyone in his way…anyone in our way…_

_How did he escape?_

He drew a shuddering breath, trying to ignore the sharp twinge of pain along the side of his face. _You keep failing. At everything. Nothing you do ever works out…how are you going to convince Bruce of anything if you never get anything right? How will you convince anyone?_

He glanced up when he heard Jim Gordon’s voice, gritting his teeth as he realized _everyone_ knew he had failed now. The entire GCPD would think he was just a pitiful imitation of his brother who couldn’t even kill one single solitary police captain.

And that meant he _had_ to go along with Ra’s al Ghul’s plan, because it was the only way to redeem himself. To show them that he _was_ someone, someone who would change Gotham so drastically that they would _forget_ Jerome, because what had Jerome ever done that was so special? He didn’t deserve to be remembered.

Stifling the anger that welled up in him at the memory of his brother, Jeremiah’s thoughts returned to Ra’s al Ghul’s instructions.

_"Get Bruce Wayne to come here."_

_Well, no time like the present._

He cleared his throat, hoping his voice would keep itself steady enough for the moment…just enough so that Gordon wouldn’t look down on him even more than he probably already was. He remembered the first time he’d met the man who would become the captain of the GCPD…so much had happened since then. 

“Pardon me, Jim.” He prided himself on his tone…he sounded nothing like someone who had been unconscious for eight hours after a beating. In fact, he sounded _perfectly_ in control. To himself, at least.

Gordon looked up, a scowl crossing his face for a moment before he smoothed it out into professional neutrality. But there was still an angry light in his blue eyes as he approached the other side of the bars, staring inside.

“What do you want?” 

Jeremiah tilted his head, watching the way the man’s hands clenched into fists. He decided to ignore the topic of how Gordon had escaped the bunker. There wasn’t time for that, and he didn’t want to dwell on his own defeat. “I was hoping to speak with Bruce again.” he said bluntly, an idea beginning to form. A smile crossed his face at its ingenuity…his plan may have failed, but there was no denying he was intelligent enough to work through his problems with relative ease. 

Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “Oh you do, huh? Sorry, but that’s not gonna happen.”

“Why not?”

“No one would ever let Bruce near you, least of all me. You’re a demented psychopath who wants to kill him.”

Jeremiah stared, genuinely confused. “Kill him?” he echoed. “Why would I want to do that?” The very thought was horrifying…how did Gordon even have the audacity to suggest something aloud? “He’s my best friend.”

“Right.” Gordon scoffed. “News flash buddy, you don’t typically try to kill your best friend’s girlfriend. Not the greatest way to form a good relationship.” He looked dangerously angry now. Jeremiah wondered if he was going to get beaten up again. 

Something Gordon said repeated itself in his head. “ _Try_ to kill her? You mean she’s not dead?”

“No thanks to you.” he snapped. “And I’m not standing around answering any more of your questions.”

“Could I at least inquire what you intend on doing with me?” He needed a few more moments to perfect the details of his idea that was coming together, and tried to stall for time. 

“You’re going straight to Arkham. To the most secure ward they have.” Gordon gave him a tight-lipped, humorless smile. “And there’ll be no escaping like your brother did.”

“I’m sure.” He straightened up from where he was sitting in the back of the cell. “But returning to my question, will you tell Bruce I want to see him?”

Gordon rolled his eyes, fed up with the conversation. “No. And if you ask again, it’s not gonna be pleasant for you.”

_Well, might as well try the last resort. Whatever it takes to get this plan to work._

“If you bring Bruce to me,” Jeremiah’s tone was measured and sure of himself as he stared at the man with a gleam in his eyes, “I’ll tell you where the rest of the bombs are hidden.”

\+ + + + + + + +

“I don’t want to speak with him.” Bruce said stonily, trying to keep his expression from betraying the torrent of conflict that flooded his emotions. He couldn’t believe any of this was happening…it all felt like some sort of horrible dream he would wake up from soon enough. But it kept going on and on, getting worse at each turn, and he’d finally decided it _wasn’t_ a dream, it was reality…just as real as the day his parents had died.

And it was no less painful.

“He says there are still bombs in the city only he knows about, and the only way he’ll tell us where they are is to bring you to him.” Gordon shifted back and forth awkwardly. He hated dragging Bruce into everything, especially considering the kid wanted to be with Selina right now more than anything else, but this was a threat he had to neutralize. “If we don’t do what he says, a lot more people could die.”

“He’s bluffing.” Bruce insisted. “If he had more bombs, he would have set them off by now. And it doesn’t fall into his plan with the maze. He wanted to turn Gotham into—”

“Yes, I know.” Gordon sighed. “And I know it could be a bluff. I just can’t risk any more threats to citizens.”

“And you really think he’ll keep his word? That he’ll tell you where they are if I see him? Jim, he’s lost his mind.” Bruce’s eyes darkened. “Promises don’t mean matter to him anymore.”

“No, and I’m not depending on him to hold up his end of the deal. I want you to get him to say where the bombs are. He trusts you, Bruce, and he’ll tell you above anyone else.”

Bruce felt a stab of something indecipherable and painful at Gordon’s words. 

_He trusts you._

He was angry with Jeremiah, _furious,_ but he couldn’t help but remember the boy who had been his best friend for so long…the way he’d always looked at Bruce with pure admiration in his eyes, the way he’d tried so hard to make Bruce proud of him with his engineering work, and how he’d always believed Bruce would come back when he’d abandoned him. He’d been a better friend than anyone Bruce had ever met before, and that made his descent into corruption even more unbearable.

Because Bruce wouldn’t let himself give up the hope that maybe, somewhere hidden away, that Jeremiah…the one who had _really_ been his friend…still existed.

Even when he knew it wasn’t true.

“He won’t tell me.” he said finally. “He’ll know you’re listening in or watching through the security cameras. He might have been sheltered, but he’s not stupid.”

“It’s worth a try.” Gordon insisted. “Please, Bruce, if this works then we can stop more people from getting hurt. And once it’s over you can go straight back to Selina, I promise. Just…”

_He's manipulating everyone into doing whatever he wants. We all know there aren’t any bombs. All he wants is to feed his obsession._

_But if there was…if there was a threat to this city…_

_You’re the one who didn’t see he was becoming this. You’re the one who never helped him when he needed it. You're the one who didn’t stop him in time._

_Don't you owe it to Gotham to keep them safe?_

“Okay, I’ll do it.” he murmured before Gordon could continue on his list of reasons. The police captain’s eyebrows shot up.

“Sorry, what?”

“I’ll do it.” His voice was stronger now, and he squared his shoulders. “I’ll go talk to him. See if I can find out where the bombs are, or if it’s just a bluff.”

Relief swept across Gordon’s face and he nodded, leading the way to the interrogation room. “Thank you, Bruce.”

The door was locked, with two armed officers standing on either side. Gordon nodded at them to move and they complied wordlessly, one of them unlocking the door and pushing it open for Bruce to step inside.

_You have to do this. You have to face him. It’s the only way to protect the city right now._

He didn’t even hear the door close behind him. His attention was fixed solely on the figure cuffed to the single chair in the interrogation room, staring at him in the faint light with oddly bright eyes. A tentative, strangely eager smile crossed his battered face, a look that Bruce almost wanted to believe was a glimpse of who Jeremiah used to be. For a moment, he was no longer the monster who had tried to kill so many people in the city with the bombs and shot Selina. He wasn’t insane, wasn’t a criminal, wasn’t manipulative and dangerously obsessed with his former friend.

But then he spoke, and the illusion was gone. Bruce was plunged back into reality. 

“I heard she’s still alive.”

The muscles in his face tensed in anger and Bruce had to hold himself back from turning and running out the door. He couldn’t do this…couldn’t face the boy who had once been his friend, who was now _taunting_ him about how he’d shot Selina. He couldn’t look at Jeremiah and remember how much he’d cared for him, how he’d wanted to keep him safe and how in the end, it never mattered because here they were, in the interrogation room of the police station, and they would never go back to the way things used to be.

_You can’t turn back now._

“Don’t…” His voice shook with repressed fury and he paused to steady it, watching as Jeremiah’s eyes studied his face. “Don’t talk about Selina.”

“To tell you the truth, I wanted her to die.” Jeremiah continued as if he hadn’t heard Bruce. “She was in the way.”

“If you say another word, I _swear—_ ” Bruce paused, taking a deep breath. “I’ll leave if you mention her again.”

He looked up quickly. “I’m sorry.” The worst part was, he _did_ sound sorry, and there was genuine concern in his wide eyes as he locked gazes with Bruce. Concern and _humanity._ It was horrifying, considering the things he’d done. Bruce tried to ignore the heartache of it all. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Bruce.”

He sounded like himself…the way he was _supposed_ to be. Bruce remembered when they had first met, when the redhead had followed him wherever he went, always watching him and listening to every word he said, always so eager to please and trying so desperately to be his friend…

_I just want us to go back._

_But it’s too late for that._

“Where are the bombs?” he asked quietly, noticing the way Jeremiah immediately glanced at the security camera in the upper corner of the room, a small smile on his face. 

“Bruce, did you know I was hoping you might have joined me yesterday? I would have wanted you with me for the detonation. So you could see how beautiful it was going to be.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered, because they didn’t go off.”

“Yes, but it’s the thought that counts.” Jeremiah said impatiently. “And it will all come together soon enough, I’m sure.” He looked down at his hands, dangling limply in the cuffs. “For you, of course.”

“What are you talking about? And where are the bombs you told Gordon about?”

“Oh, there weren’t any others.” Jeremiah told him airily. “If there were, they would have ruined the maze. But I’m sure you knew that.”

Bruce shuddered. How had Jeremiah pinpointed his exact thoughts like that? The very words he’d spoken to Gordon outside the interrogation room just moments before? “Then why did you say there were?”

“So you would come to see me.” Jeremiah gave him a look that said it was obvious. Bruce could almost imagine him in years past, trying to explain some engineering concept to him and trying not to look too shocked when Bruce couldn’t fully grasp it. As if he wasn’t able to comprehend the fact that his friend might not be capable of knowing everything. He'd trusted Bruce so much... “I thought you knew _that,_ too.” He sounded almost disappointed.

“Jeremiah, we’re not friends anymore.” The words burned in his mouth and he hated them, hated hearing them spoken in the stillness of the room, hated the way Jeremiah’s gaze snapped to him with a look of confused betrayal—why was he confused, he had done so many horrible things?—hated that it had come to this. “My only reason for agreeing to speak with you at all was to find out if there were any more bombs. That’s all.”

_ We're not friends. We can't be friends. You wouldn't let it happen, Jeremiah, you destroyed it, because friends don't do those sorts of things. And I could only help you so far...I couldn't stop you from all this. I tried, but you're the one who tore it all down. _

Jeremiah was still staring at him silently, refusing to accept anything Bruce had just said. The latter realized he had sunk so deep into his delusions that he didn’t even understand the reality of what he had done. He didn’t understand why Bruce was so angry about Selina, didn’t see why bombing the city was a ludicrous plan that would kill hundreds of people, didn’t even see his own insanity or try to stop it before it was too late…he was so fixed on the goal he’d made for himself that nothing else seemed to matter anymore. And if it didn’t matter to him, Jeremiah didn’t care about it.

“Bruce…” His tone was soft, almost hypnotic, but Bruce could hear the fear he was trying to conceal. The anxiety that came with the prospect of being left alone, or abandoned…and hadn’t that always been Jeremiah’s worst fear? Hadn’t that been part of the reason why he had slowly slipped into insanity? Because Bruce always ended up abandoning him, and even when he came back, he knew he had destroyed his friend a little more each time, slowly breaking him down unconsciously, and now…

Now they were here.

“I don’t expect you to understand yet.” Jeremiah continued, composing himself. But his eyes darted around the room restlessly now, and there was a dangerously agitated edge to his words. Bruce remembered Jerome, and how, when they’d encountered one another, he’d had to appease him, otherwise the other Valeska might have killed him where he stood. He didn’t want to admit Jeremiah was becoming like his twin, but the comparison was impossible to ignore.

“There’s nothing to understand. I know what you were doing.” He knew there was no rational explanation, and that was all. There was never anything more. “And if there aren’t any bombs, then I’m going to leave now.”

“He’s going to show you, Bruce.” The words stopped him, and Bruce turned back around slowly to face Jeremiah, who smiled eagerly, licking blood off his lip. “He’s going to show you that it’s true. Even if you don’t believe _me.”_

With two quick strides, Bruce was standing on the other side of the table, palms pressed flat against the cold metal and eyes boring into the pale silver ones opposite him. “Who are you talking about?”

“Who do you think?” Jeremiah parried, leaning as close as the restraints would allow him. Bruce could see he was having a hard time focusing his vision and his face was mottled with bruises, and he had to suppress the automatic urge to be sympathetic. Jeremiah deserved _everything_ he got, and more. 

“Stop playing games. This isn’t the time. If you won't tell me—”

“I thought you would know right away. Since you’re his heir.” Jeremiah gazed up at Bruce from where he sat, and the lights flickered for a moment in the room. Bruce stepped back.

“You mean…” 

“If you won’t trust _me,_ maybe he will be able to persuade you. Better than nothing at all, I suppose.” Jeremiah shrugged. 

“Ra’s al Ghul?”

"He's the one who stopped the detonation. He...explained how things could be better. For you...for both of us. There will be a greater Gotham than you or I could ever imagine, and it will be ours. Just ours. It's what you need, Bruce."

_ What we need. _

Bruce’s eyes widened. “Jeremiah, you’re saying—” He never got to finish the sentence, because the lights flickered again and then went out completely. Without warning, the power for the entire GCPD precinct was cut off, leaving the interrogation room in dead blackness as something grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away. 

The last thing Bruce heard was the rattling of a key in a lock, followed by the sound of handcuffs falling on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell with me about the valeska twins on the ol' tumblr @inc0rrect-dc, I need friends


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

“No one saw us leave, right?” Jonathan looked up sharply as the sound of a police siren rose above the bustling chaos of the bridges, where traffic was backed up all the way to inner Gotham as the citizens continued the agonizingly slow evacuation process. “None of the trucks were spotted?”

Ecco paused, balancing one of the bombs, which was tilting partway out of the back of a GCPD transport van. “I don’t think so.”

Jervis popped his head around the corner of the van, lugging a bomb behind him, hat still miraculously in place on his head. “If they did, they would have lost us in all the fuss.”

“Huh.” Jonathan scowled, still skeptical. Too much had gone wrong in the past few days for him to have hope that this plan would succeed, and the constantly nearing sirens were not boding well for them. “Well, let’s get the stuff in place and get back to downtown as fast as possible. I don’t want to be near this stuff when it all gets blown to hell.”

Ecco saluted with her free hand, smiling, but Jonathan saw the worry that darkened her eyes. He knew she was concerned about Jeremiah, who was, to their knowledge, still locked up in the GCPD precinct. But she’d decided to trust Ra’s al Ghul, who had promised freedom for him, and if it meant unquestioningly unloading the generator bombs around the bases and centers of each of Gotham’s bridges, then she would do it.

Just as the last bomb was in place twenty minutes later, and the three were standing back to admire their work, Jonathan noticed a shift in the crowds making their way out of the city. “Why are they…” he began, trailing off as the police sirens rose up in the distance and red and blue lights began to flash. He ducked down behind a stationary van that sat in the middle of the bridge they were on, next to Jervis and Ecco, and watched as people began scrambling back toward where they had just come from, not even bothering to try and disentangle their vehicles in the process. Jervis raised an eyebrow.

“Perhaps they were given word about the explosions.” he offered, and Jonathan groaned.

“Someone must’ve seen us moving the bombs over here. They’re trying to get everyone off the bridges.” He straightened up, hiding his mask behind him in order to blend in better with the crowd rushing past them. “Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not the death toll that counts, it’s the result.” He motioned for the other two to follow him, and they began threading their way through the panicked Gothamites. There were more sirens now, and Jonathan looked over his shoulder to make sure he’d switched each of the bombs on. Once the detonator had been pressed (Ra’s al Ghul had explained he was in possession of the device, after revealing the entirety of his plan to the trio earlier in the day) there would be no stopping the sequence. 

_Just like before,_ Jonathan thought, _except this time they might just get a chance to go off._

\+ + + + + + + + 

When someone pulled the hood off his head, Bruce blinked quickly, looking around. He saw immediately that they were in a warehouse, or some sort of abandoned building, judging by the sparseness of their surroundings. He was surprised to find his hands weren’t tied and nothing was restraining him at all…if there hadn’t been men dressed in black suits and cloth masks covering their faces standing at every possible exit to the room, he might have contemplated escape.

As it was, he stood still, watching Ra’s al Ghul. The man who had died once—who knew how many times?—had come back, had been dead again…the man who’d told Bruce over and over again that he was destined for something beyond his wildest imagination. And now they were here, overlooking the city and the bridges that stretched across the river to the mainland, and Bruce knew right away something bad was going to happen.

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to face Jeremiah, who was staring at him silently, his expression empty. Bruce glared at him. “You two are working together?”

Jeremiah glanced over at Ra’s, who turned away from the window to face Bruce with a faint smile.

“You should be glad, Bruce. Jeremiah and I are the only two people in this city who know who you need to become in order to fulfill your destiny.” Jeremiah smiled at that, too. Bruce simultaneously wanted to punch him in the face and drag him away from this entire situation and try to bring him back to who he used to be. “And from here, you will be able to watch a new Gotham being built just for you.”

“I don’t want a new Gotham. I’m fine with the old one.” Bruce said between his teeth.

“You may believe that,” Ra’s shrugged, “but it’s simply not true. You will never have the opportunity to fulfill your role as my heir and the city’s dark knight if everything stays as it is.”

“What are you—”

“The two of you,” Ra’s looked from Bruce to Jeremiah, the back to Bruce again, “are bound to this city. It’s a part of you. And you are both destined to become something greater if you are only given the chance. Jeremiah knows that,” At this, Jeremiah nodded slightly, his eyes fixed on Ra’s the entire time, "and soon enough, you will too, Bruce.”

“All you’re doing is enhancing his delusions.” Bruce snapped at the man, not sure if he was angry at Jeremiah for going along so willingly with Ra’s al Ghul’s plan or worried for him, that he would become further ensnared in his insanity. He hated the fact that part of him still believed he could somehow make his friend come back to the _real_ him, because the other part of him believed with equal certainty that it would never happen. “He’s not destined for anything other than a prison cell in Arkham.” He noticed the way Jeremiah flinched at his words, but it was the _truth._ Bruce turned reluctantly to his former friend. “You know that. You know it as much as I do.”

“Do you really believe that, Bruce?” he asked quietly, his voice low and even. “Is there any part of you that truly believes that?"

“I believe…I _know_ that you’ve lost your mind. And as long as you’re like this, you’re not going to do anything for this city. _Jerome_ didn’t.”

“I’m not like him.”

“How long are you going to tell yourself that? How long is it going to take for you to realize the truth? You’ve become everything your brother was.”

“He’s not my brother.” Jeremiah snapped, and Bruce stared at him in confusion. “He was _never_ my brother. Not really. All he ever wanted was to see me dead or driven insane.” Slowly, he stepped closer to Bruce, his gaze cold and completely sure of himself. “ _You_ were everything he never could be. Only you, Bruce. Not Jerome.”

He met the other’s eyes steadily. “Jeremiah, you can say whatever you want, but I’ll never _really_ be your brother. And I’m not your friend, either. Not after the things you’ve done.”

He tried not to show how painful it was to hear those words. “The things I’ve done? Bruce, I did all that to show _you_ what you needed to know. Ra’s al Ghul said it too…it’s who you’re meant to be. Both of us.”

“I told you, you’re going to go straight to Arkham after this. Nothing more.”

Jeremiah stared back. “You always said you believed in me.” 

“Not like this. I believed you could help Gotham, not burn it to the ground.” His voice caught in his throat. “And I believed you could become something better than Jerome.”

“I _am_ better than Jerome.” His eyes flashed. “I’m better than Jerome _ever_ was.”

“Are you really?” Bruce retorted, his heart sinking when he saw the look of betrayal cross Jeremiah’s pale face. _No, he doesn’t deserve pity. He’s become a monster. Just like Jerome. He shot Selina._ “Look what you’ve done, Jeremiah. _Nothing_ about this is sane. You’re not who you used to be, and you don’t realize that.”  
“I _do._ I know I’ve changed, Bruce, _you’re_ the one who doesn’t understand. I was _supposed_ to become someone new, because it was the only way to be better than Jerome.”

“You aren’t better than him, Jeremiah.” Bruce’s chest felt heavy as he looked helplessly at the boy who was once his friend. His _best_ friend, who had tried so hard to be everything Bruce wanted him to be. The next words he spoke were barely above a whisper. “Not anymore.”

Jeremiah stepped back, away from him. Ra’s looked at them both carefully. “If you’re trying to—”

“The only time when you were better than Jerome,” Bruce continued, his dark eyes boring into Jeremiah’s, “was before all this. Before you allowed the insanity to take over. When you didn’t let yourself give in.”

“That’s not true, you’re…”

“You were _stronger_ than him.” Jeremiah swallowed, suddenly looking very vulnerable. Almost like his old self, when he had always looked to Bruce for reassurance. Except now Bruce was arguing against everything he’d made himself believe. “I know you didn’t feel like it, but you were. Because you didn’t give in to the darkness. You didn’t let it control you.”

“ _Nothing_ is controlling me! That’s the _point,_ Bruce!” His voice was shaking now, and the facade of calmness had slipped away. “I wasn’t stronger than him, not until I realized who I had to become. You’re the one who doesn’t—”

“It doesn’t really matter.” Ra’s al Ghul cut in cooly. “You’ll have plenty of time to sort out your differences later. In the meantime,” he stepped up beside Bruce, gesturing out the window. Night had fallen over the city, but the bridges were still bustling with traffic. “we will finally be able to experience this long-awaited event. When you will claim your position that has needed you for so long.”

“You’re insane.” Bruce glared. “And nothing—”

“You want to help the city, don’t you? This is your opportunity to save them.” He nodded toward the unwitting crowds below. 

“Because you’re going to put them in danger?”

“When else will you have the chance to step up and do what you need to do?” His eyes glittered. “It’s the only way, Bruce. For you.” He turned to the other boy for a moment, who was watching them from a distance, his eyes fixed on Bruce. “For both of you.”

Jeremiah searched his friend’s expression for any sort of change, any sort of understanding that might break through. He _had_ to understand someday, no matter what he said now…but Bruce’s words still stung. Jeremiah _wasn’t_ like his twin, and why couldn’t Bruce see that? Why couldn’t he see how Jeremiah tried to hard to be so very different from Jerome, because becoming like him was his worst nightmare? All the effort he put into it, and no appreciation.

It wasn’t _fair._

“It’s a balance,” Ra’s al Ghul was saying, and Jeremiah tried to focus on him, because it was easier than getting lost in his own thoughts. “that the two of you will create. You will help _each other_ to become more than who you are now. And Gotham will be yours.”

_Don't you hear what he’s saying, Bruce? How could you turn down an offer like that?_

“Well, that’s all very nice,” a new voice broke the heavy silence of the dim room, and Jeremiah’s gaze snapped to the blonde woman who came striding into the light, carrying an oblong box in her arms. “but I’m afraid you’ll never get to see it happen.” She was speaking to Ra’s, who turned away from Bruce to face her, and Jeremiah stepped up behind his friend, watching the confrontation unfold with wary eyes. He knew the woman…he’d seen her momentarily with Oswald Cobblepot and the others that day Ra’s had helped him escape, and he knew her from a memory even further back: she had been the assistant at the “magic show” Jerome had hijacked back when Jeremiah had first come face to face with his twin in Gotham.

_Why does everything have to come back to Jerome?_

Ra’s was saying something to her now in his unfailingly calm voice, and Bruce suddenly turned to Jeremiah, his eyes searching the other boy’s face as if he was looking for something hiding beneath what he saw. A glimpse of the old him, perhaps. Jeremiah stared back, unwilling to let even a spark of that show through. He had been pathetic… _weak…_ and no one could ever see that again. Because it _wasn’t_ him anymore. It never would be again.

“You know he’s tricking you.” Bruce said quietly, urgency creeping at the corners of his words. “All he wants is for me to follow in his footsteps. You’re just a pawn he’s using to get to me. His promises to you…they’re all lies. And they’re dragging you deeper into insanity, Jeremiah. You have to see that.”

“No, they’re not. Because I’m not insane.” he retorted evenly, barely even noticing the arrival of several other strangers. He _did_ notice when they became ensnared in fighting with Ra’s al Ghul’s guards, and the moment the first blows began to land, Jeremiah grabbed Bruce’s arm and dragged him to the side, and the latter pulled away.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I’m just trying to keep you safe—”

“Well, don’t. I don’t want you to.” Bruce glared. Jeremiah stared back. “Nothing you try to say will make up for what you’ve done. I can’t forgive you for any of that.”

“But it was for _you,”_ he began, knowing it would make no difference at this point but desperate to try anyway. Bruce shook his head. 

“If you really cared about me, you wouldn’t have shot Selina. You’re being selfish, Jeremiah, and I know you don’t really care anymore.”

His eyes widened. “But I do! I—” He broke off as the sound of gunfire rose above the fighting that was happening all around them, and he pulled out the pistol he was carrying, shoving Bruce behind one of the pillars in the room before his friend could try to get involved in the fighting. He looked around, unconsciously tensing as the guns began going off again, and saw the blonde woman holding a long, curved knife and charging straight at Ra’s al Ghul. He raised the pistol, taking careful aim at her, then something wrapped around his hand, wrenching the gun away and snapping his wrist back. Jeremiah spun around, just in time to see Tabitha Galavan wielding the whip she always carried, and his mind went blank for a second as he remembered being back in that penthouse he hated, cowering away from his brother who was smiling viciously down at him and she only watched them. And even if she hadn’t _done_ anything to him, she’d let Jerome do whatever _he_ wanted, and that made her at least partly responsible for everything, didn’t it? Responsible for the three long years Jeremiah had lived in fear of his twin even after he was dead, responsible for Jeremiah having been driven to the point of _him_ being the one to kill Jerome…he hated her, because she made all the suppressed fear and panic that came with thinking about Jerome flood back to his mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Before he could remember where he was, she’d sprung closer, and the whip was wrapped tightly around his neck, cutting off his air supply, Jeremiah clutched uselessly at it as she dragged him closer, his face momentarily contorting with pain when the sharp edge of the whip cut into his throat. 

“Just so you know,” she hissed in his ear, and he couldn’t see her eyes but they were flaming with anger, “this is for Selina.”

He gasped in a shallow breath, hands falling limply to his sides as he collapsed to his knees. The pressure on his windpipe didn’t let up and he started to see black spots dancing across his line of vision. Something flickered in his memory, something he remembered her telling someone…him?…three years ago.

“Thought you said…” he gritted, blinking quickly to try and stay conscious, “…you didn’t kill kids.”

She laughed humorlessly, leaning closer. “Yeah, and I’d make an exception for you.”

He remembered with a jolt that it _hadn’t_ been him she’d said the same thing to, those long years ago, it hadn’t been him, it had been Jerome…but he wasn’t like Jerome, was he? He wasn’t _ever_ going to be like Jerome, and he hated Tabitha so much for making him think about his brother when all he wanted to do was forget…

Mustering a final burst of energy as the black spots began taking over everything, he twisted around, ducking out of her grasp and dragging her down to the ground until he was on top of her, his hand brushing agains the handle of the knife she kept strapped to her leg. He ripped it from the sheath and leaned closer, the knife pressed to her throat now.

“I told you I would kill you.” he said softly, and she scowled at him.

“Think you’re Jerome now, huh?”

“ _No._ ” He gripped the blade tighter. “I’ve never thought that.”

“Good, because you’ll never amount to half of the things he’s done.” she spat, and Jeremiah gave her a remorseless smile. 

“Tell that to him when you see him in hell.” 

But before he could slit her throat, there was another deafening burst of gunfire and he fell back at a sudden impact to his shoulder, looking up just in time to see Oswald Cobblepot, Alfred, and more people he didn’t know, enter the room. Jeremiah scowled as Tabitha retrieved the knife that had fallen to the floor and disappeared into the chaos. He started to get up to follow her and finish the job properly, but his right arm buckled under the pressure and he fell back again, craning his neck to stare at the bloodstain that crept across the dark cloth of his jacket. 

He gritted his teeth as the first wave of pain hit, rushing through his entire arm and immobilizing the muscles. But he could _control_ it, he had to, had to show Bruce that he was able to control whatever he wanted…

Inexplicably, he thought of Jerome again, silhouetted in the shadows of the alleyway as he clutched the pistol— _“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”_ —and breathed in sharply. He _wouldn’t_ do that, he wouldn't think about Jerome, Jerome was _dead_ and nothing that happened had to do with him anymore, it didn’t…

When he looked up, he saw Bruce staring at him. And for the briefest of moments, Jeremiah saw legitimate concern cross his friend’s face before it was replaced by stoic neutrality. 

_No, come back, don’t try to be like that…you know you’ll always be my friend, whether you like it or not, there’s no going back for you because you can’t escape this…_

Someone jostled his shoulder and he grimaced, hating Oswald Cobblepot with everything he possessed for ruining his opportunity to kill Tabitha and making him look ineffectual to this entire situation. He would _certainly_ be doing something about that…

Then his eyes widened as he saw the blonde woman, with the apparent help of Bruce, drive the knife straight into Ra’s al Ghul’s chest, just as the man pressed down the button on the detonator he held in his hand. The device fell to the floor, and Jeremiah kept staring, momentarily forgetting everything else around him.

_They’re going to…_

He couldn’t finish his thought, because there was a faint, distant rumbling, and his gaze turned to the bridges outside. 

As if on cue, the fighting stopped as every other person in the room turned to watch. 

The bombs on the bridge closest to them were the first to detonate, and a billowing mass of angry red flames and pitch-black smoke plumed up as the structure began to collapse with a snapping sound so loud that it rattled the glass of the windows they were watching from. 

The bridge beside it was next, and the smoke was so thick by that point that it was barely possible to see the actual explosion, but the lights from the fire sparked through the blackness here and there, and they could hear it just as clearly. 

It felt like everyone was holding their breath, unable to believe what they were seeing.

Unable to decide what they thought about it all.

Jeremiah stared at the chaos below, the flames that were licking hungrily up to the sky amid the smoke and rubble and dust that swirled through the nighttime city air, and smiled.

_Now they’ll know. Everyone will know._

_I’m better than Jerome, and there’s no way to deny it now._

_No way for anyone to escape._

He looked over at Bruce, who was watching with a horrified expression on his face, standing beside Alfred, who hadn’t even noticed Jeremiah, he was so engrossed in the destruction outside. 

_We’ll never escape. Neither of us, Bruce._

_This is where it ends._

He heard police sirens now, saw the lights piercing through the smoke. _Go ahead, Gordon, try to fix this one. Try to convince yourself I’m a failure now._

_Now you’ve seen the truth._

He wanted to stay, wanted to savor the moment with his friend—because Bruce _was_ still his friend, his best friend, and he _would_ remember that—but he knew he couldn’t. There were too many people in this room who wanted to kill him, and there was no guarantee he wold possess the same skill for coming back to life that his twin had. Besides, he was unarmed now, and there was no one here who was truly on his side. 

For now, anyway.

Everyone’s attention was still focused solely on the detonation of the bombs, and Jeremiah slowly got to his feet, cradling his right arm with his left as pain blossomed in his shoulder again. He shot a baleful look at Cobblepot, who didn’t notice him, and told himself this wasn’t the time for confrontation. He was still unfailingly logical, even if Bruce refused to believe it, and he wouldn’t let his desire for revenge get in the way. 

Resisting the urge to look back for one final glimpse at the beautiful destruction that raged outside, he slipped out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's kind of short, but the next one should be longer...hope ya liked it anyway! :)


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's mostly just introspective for the characters but I promise it's all for a reason and there'll be plenty of action coming up! :))

**Chapter Nine**

Jeremiah watched the last of the evening light stream in through the cracks in the wall of the old warehouse, eyes heavy and gaze restless. The power in most of the city had been cut off after the bridges blew, and when night fell, Gotham would be plunged into darkness again. As it had for the past three days.

When the first reports had come through that the city was being left to fend for itself without help from anyone outside, Jeremiah had been elated. It was the ideal situation: he’d created the battleground he would need to help Bruce achieve his full potential, and now things _had_ to go right. No one would interrupt them, or the city, as it fell in on itself. It was exactly what he’d had planned originally for the maze bombs, but even better. Because now they were alone…Gotham itself was alone. 

But as time passed and there was no sign of Bruce doing anything aside from helping out the GCPD on occasion and organizing the place they were calling “Haven” for the citizens, Jeremiah began to wonder if maybe things weren’t going to go so perfectly after all.

_It’s only been three days,_ he told himself as he watched the light fading away, leaving the warehouse shrouded in shadows. _You have to be patient._

After all, Bruce had _wanted_ to protect the city, hadn’t he? Jeremiah remembered how his friend had once been so intent on saving Gotham…he remembered how he’d actually been _envious_ of Bruce’s ambition, worried he would become too absorbed in his new role.

But now…

Now, things had changed.

If Bruce wanted to save the city, then he and Jeremiah would be invariably bound together, no matter what. If he wanted to pull Gotham back from the edge of anarchy and self-destruction, then they would only be brought closer.

Because Jeremiah was the one who had made it like this in the first place.

He was the _reason_ for everything Bruce would do.

_If only he could see that._

_“You can say whatever you want, but I’ll never really be your brother. And I’m not your friend, either. Not after the things you’ve done.”_

His eyes darkened at the memory of Bruce’s words. How could he even think something like that? They had been through so much together…had always been there for one another no matter how terrible things had been. Bruce _couldn’t_ just walk away now. 

_Where did I go wrong?_

Jeremiah sat down on the edge of one of the wooden crates the filled the warehouse, ignoring the twinge of pain in his shoulder where Oswald Cobblepot had shot him. Ecco had dug the bullet out two days before, and Jeremiah was so engrossed in trying to figure out the next steps to his plan that he hadn’t thought about it, although he _did_ remember with plenty of resentment that he hadn’t been able to kill Tabitha Galavan. That was something he would return to later until he actually had a chance to succeed. But it all paled in comparison to the other things on his mind…after everything that had happened, he’d been so sure he would at least be _satisfied_ with his work. Just like he had been when he’d originally created the idea for the energy generators. Satisfied, and _proud._

But he couldn’t be, not as long as Bruce kept ignoring the truth.

And that was the most infuriating part. 

Jeremiah had worked so hard to make everything perfect for them. He’d isolated the city from everything outside, he’d torn away the things and people that were holding Bruce back… _everything_ he’d done was for him.

Frankly, he was almost angry at Bruce for being so stubborn.

“There’s a piece missing.” he whispered, his voice, quiet as it was, echoing in the silence. “Something…there’s something.” He shook his head, trying to figure it out. _There has to be a way to make this work._

He had to prove their connection, that was it. Had to prove to Bruce that, no matter what he said, they _were_ as good as family. The type of family Jeremiah was always supposed to have…not the mismatched, neglectful, and oftentimes homicidal one he’d ended up with. Bruce had told him as much before, hadn’t he? Now all he had to do was prove it to his friend all over again. Show him that, no matter what, there _was_ a connection. One way or another.

And _then_ maybe things would start to come together.

“How can you show him…” he murmured, ignoring the fact that he was speaking aloud to himself. There was a time when that would have frightened him, convinced him that he was losing his mind. But now he knew better…he knew he was stronger than that.

_He has to see the connection. He has to believe it for anything else to work._

_You have to find a way…_

Jeremiah frowned. 

How _were_ they connected?

He’d never truly thought about it. All he knew was they shared a similar darkness inside. If he could find the source of that darkness… _why_ Bruce still harbored it within him even if he didn’t want to admit it…

Maybe then he would know the answer.

He stood up again, resuming his restless pacing through the warehouse. The place had been abandoned for a long time, rotting splinters of wooden beams and twisted metal littering the floor everywhere. Jeremiah noticed what had probably once been a stack of newspapers in the corner of the room, which had been scattered over time until the papers were stuck here and there, hidden under rubble or crumpled on the floor. 

His eye caught the headline of one that had been snagged on the edge of a sharp piece of discarded machinery, rust crawling hungrily at the edges of the metal. Absentmindedly, he picked up the newspaper, unfolding it so the entire line was visible, written in tall black letters.

_Thomas and Martha Wayne Murdered._

He paused, reading over it again.

In the back of his mind, an idea flickered.

Beneath the headline was a picture of the two billionaires, the lines of their faces so familiar. Familiar because they reminded him of Bruce. Reminded him of the family portrait that was displayed on the wall in the manor, the one that Jeremiah had often gazed at almost wistfully, wishing from somewhere deep inside him that _he_ could have been a part of it as well.

A _real_ family.

But, of course, it wouldn’t have mattered in the end. Because they were dead.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, scanning over the short article that was written beneath the pictures. Most of it was merely speculation as to who the killer might have been and what the police department had said to the press. But when he saw the last sentence on the page, his breath caught in his throat.

_…their deaths witnessed by their young son and only living relative, Bruce Wayne._

Jeremiah clutched the paper tighter. 

_Oh._

Something lit up in the depths of his eyes.

_Of course._

_Bruce saw it all…he saw that man kill his parents._

_And he wanted…_

He laughed breathlessly, realization suddenly crashing through his thoughts. _Why didn’t you see that before?_

Bruce didn’t want to protect the city simply because his parents had died. He didn’t want to save everyone else from a similar fate because he was sympathetic to the faceless multitude of Gotham’s citizens. He wasn’t doing any of it because he felt guilty or helpless when thinking about his parents’ murder…

It wasn’t the death of Thomas and Martha Wayne that had fed the darkness inside him for all these years.

It wasn’t because they had been killed in front of him.

There was only one person who had gotten Bruce’s full and unadulterated attention after the crime. One person who he had tirelessly retained a connection with, even if he hadn’t wanted to.

One person who had mattered more to Bruce than anything else, because of who he _was_.

_The man who killed them._

_The man who made Bruce who he is now._

He didn’t even know the man’s name, didn’t know who he was. He hadn’t even paid much attention during Bruce’s ongoing investigation to find him, because he’d never thought it would come back around to this.

Still, there was no question about it.

His laughter trailed off and Jeremiah’s gaze turned back to the newspaper in his hands. “But that doesn’t make _sense.”_ he whispered, shaking his head. “It doesn’t…”

_If someone is important to you, don’t you have to…_

He frowned, absently folding the piece of newspaper at the corners. Something wasn’t falling in place properly.

_Don’t you have to love them?_

_Isn’t that how it works?_

But that couldn’t be right. It didn’t line up with everything else. If an enemy could matter so much, then love _couldn’t_ be the only thing that mattered. There had to be something else.

Something that wasn’t quite love…

Jeremiah wasn’t even sure what love was supposed to feel like. He _thought_ he knew, but there was no way to tell. He knew it had to be something powerful, didn’t it? It had to be something that could never be forgotten. Something that burned inside, something that could be terribly dangerous if it burned _too_ badly. 

There was only one other emotion that could come close to that, he knew. One that he _had_ felt before, and one that was just as confusing. 

Hatred.

He’d always been told that the two were opposites. That it had to be one or the other. But he couldn’t help but feel they weren’t so different after all…they couldn’t be, not when they almost felt the same. At least, as far as he could tell. 

_What_ is _the difference?_

Was there one at all?

His gaze turned back to the picture of the two murdered Waynes. 

And suddenly, he was standing in the hall of the manor, next to Bruce. Staring up at the portrait, something unknown and painful twisting his heart.

Longing for something he didn’t understand.

_“You all look so happy.”_

Wanting to belong _somewhere._

Belong to _someone._

_“Do you remember your own family?”_

Wanting to be loved.

_If you won’t understand, Bruce…_

_If you won’t let me in…_

If love and hatred really were the same thing…

_They have to be. They_ are _the same. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He hated the man who killed them, and that became the only thing he could think about. It made him want to protect Gotham…made him want to become something else. Doesn’t that make them the same thing?_

He kept staring at the paper. An idea was fluttering behind his thoughts, and he couldn’t quite work it out yet. But it was _there…_ it was there, and he knew it would form itself soon enough. This _meant_ something, it meant he could do something…

Something that they both needed.

He would be able to prove the truth to Bruce…be able to drop the final piece of the puzzle into place.

Jeremiah carefully folded the paper into a neat square, his eyes glittering in the darkness. 

_And show him that we truly are connected._

_One way or another._

\+ + + + + + + +

“Where is he?” Bruce spat, dragging the man up by his collar. His brown eyes flashed, and the half-conscious thug cringed away from him.

“I dunno! I haven’t seen him!”

“Then you know someone who has.” Bruce held on tighter. The man shook his head wildly.

“No! No, I don’t. I don’t know. Honestly, man. I don’t know. You don’t mess with those guys, you know? His brother was bad enough, and now that the bridges—”

“Yes, I know about the bridges.” Bruce interrupted bitterly. “You still know someone who knows where he is. Someone has to.”

“If I knew, I’d tell you!” The man raised his hands. “I swear. I don’t want trouble, not now. It’s crazy enough out here as it is.”

Bruce considered for a moment, watching the man’s face carefully, then let go. The latter struggled away, nursing a black eye and keeping his wary gaze fixed on the boy. “If you see him,” Bruce called after him, hands clenched into fists at his sides, “tell him I’m going to find him.”

The man nodded hurriedly, disappearing around the corner of the street. Bruce watched him leave, the cold wind whipping around him, catching the hem of his black coat and causing it to billow out behind him. The shadows on the empty street fell across his face, darkening everything except his eyes, which stared resolutely in front of him. 

_I’m going to find you._

_I know you’re out there, and I’ll find you._

_I gave you chance after chance, and you never came back. You never listened to me. Never trusted me to help you._

_And now you’ve given me no choice but to take you down._

His steps were slow as he walked along the abandoned sidewalk. This district of the city was relatively calm…none of the escaped prison inmates had claimed it as their territory yet as they were in all the other areas, and everyone was keeping to themselves in their homes. During the last two days, Bruce had scoured as much of the city as possible, searching for Jeremiah, but he knew it would be a nearly impossible task to actually find him. With all the chaos Gotham had been thrown into, he could be anywhere.

But he wasn’t going to give up.

He couldn’t give up.

When Selina had tried to convince him that none of the things Jeremiah had done were Bruce’s fault, he’d almost believed her for a little while. He had felt just as responsible for his former friend, but he hadn’t felt guilty. He’d known that there had been nothing he could do to stop any of it.

But after Jeremiah had shot Selina, after the bridges had blown and the city had been stranded on its own in the darkness, the guilt had surged back stronger than ever.

Guilt, and a burning need to put a stop to the insanity that Jeremiah had perpetrated.

Especially when he had sworn to protect the city.

He hadn’t let himself think about who they used to be. It was too complicated that way, too dangerous. It made him wonder if there was a way out of this, a way to restore everything to how it used to be. And he couldn’t wonder that, because Bruce knew that was impossible.

Jeremiah wasn’t ever coming back.

And that thought was much too painful to dwell on anymore.

He couldn’t think about the way his friend used to smile at him, eyes wide and trusting behind his glasses, knowing that Bruce would always be there. And when Bruce _wasn’t_ there, he waited patiently for him to come back, no matter how long it took. Because Bruce was all he had.

And that wasn’t enough to keep him from falling into insanity.

Falling into the trap Jerome had set for him.

Bruce couldn’t let himself think about that.

Instead, he thought about Selina. Thought about how she’d stuck with him fearlessly even when she knew Jeremiah was coming after Bruce and could easily try to go straight through her to get what he wanted.

And he had.

Bruce gritted his teeth, pressing his hands together as he remembered the look in Jeremiah’s eyes that night. The hatred that had smoldered beneath the calm exterior, hatred for anyone who came between him and Bruce. It was dangerous and sickening and Bruce didn’t _want_ to remember it, but he couldn’t help it. It was such a stark difference from the Jeremiah he had always known, and it unnerved him even now.

_Do you hate him?_ The thought was sudden and sharp and for a moment, Bruce wasn’t sure it was even his. He felt like someone had spoken the question aloud, but there was no one else out on the dark street. He was alone, and it was all in his head. 

_Do you?_

He sighed. That part was even worse, because sometimes he _didn’t_ hate Jeremiah, he only hated the monster that had taken over his friend. As if Jeremiah would come back someday, tear off the mask of who he’d become, and they would be all right again.

But then he would remember that would never happen. And even after he realized that, some of the hatred was still there. 

Burning deep inside him like the newly lit kindling to a fire.

It was the only thing that kept him going after Jeremiah. Hunting him down. He needed to find him, even if he wasn't sure what he would do when that happened. The GCPD, Arkham…they were all in disarray, and criminals were running rampant in the streets. Law and order had disappeared overnight, and it wasn’t as if Bruce could arrange a trial for his former friend and have him locked in a prison cell.

_So why_ do _you need to find him?_

He didn’t know the answer to that.

He only knew there was something insatiable that had been ignited inside him, something that forced him to keep going even if he didn’t really want to. And it wouldn’t go away until he had found Jeremiah, had confronted him face to face.

A strange sense of deja vu swept over Bruce as he continued down the shadowy street, but he wasn’t sure why. 

He couldn’t remember when he had felt like this before, but he knew he had.

_Don't think about it right now._

_Just think about finding him._

_That’s all that matters._

He didn’t even notice that he was passing the darkened shape of the Monarch Theater, or the familiar alleyway that stretched off into blackness alongside it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think in the comments! Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

_Three Months Later_

"Well." Oswald Cobblepot looked up from the gleaming pearl-handled handgun he was polishing without any real hurry. “Fancy seeing you here. This is certainly a surprise.”

“I doubt it’s any real surprise.” Jeremiah clasped his hands behind his back. “You have to approve anyone who sees you before the guards let them in, so you knew I’d be here.”

“I mean,” he smiled tightly, setting aside the pistol and leaning forward across the table he was sitting at, “I was surprised to hear you had come to see me in the first place.”

“You weren’t exactly my first pick for an alliance.” Jeremiah replied coldly, watching the man’s every move with tentative eyes. “Considering you shot me the last time we met.”

“Oh, right.” Cobblepot kept smiling. “How _is_ your shoulder? I do apologize for that.”

Jeremiah gave him a scathing glance. “You also didn’t let me kill Tabitha Galavan.” It wasn’t the reason he was here, in the city hall that had been taken over by Cobblepot and his men, but it _was_ a subject that had been bothering him for the past several months. “Do you know where she is?”

“Tabitha?” A smug look crossed his face and he picked up the pistol again, turning it over in his hands. “I regret to inform you this, but she’s dead.”

His eyes narrowed as he stared at Oswald disbelievingly. “What?”

“Yes.” He sighed with false sympathy. “A long time coming, too. I’ll admit it was quite satisfying.”

“ _You_ killed her?”

“Really, can you blame me? She murdered my mother.”

Jeremiah’s eyes burned with resentment, but he forced his face to remain calm. The prospect of killing Tabitha had been hovering in the back of his mind for these three long months, even as he’d thrown himself into his new plan that only a few people knew about…to hear that she was dead, and not by his hand, was a crushing blow. But Cobblepot couldn’t know that.

_That’s not why you’re here._

_Focus._

_Remember the things that are more important._

“Why _did_ you want to kill her?” the man asked conversationally, clearly trying to rub salt in the wound. Jeremiah pressed his hands more tightly together, fighting to stay composed. 

_Tell him what you need, then get out._

_You don’t need to listen to him antagonizing you._

“It doesn’t really matter.” he said smoothly, forcing a smile onto his face although his eyes were still dark with anger. _He killed her, and now you’ll never get your revenge. You’ll never show her who you’ve become…how you’re better than Jerome, or Galavan, or she ever was._ “And it’s not why I’m here.”

“Of course.” the man smiled back. “How thoughtless of me, distracting you from your purpose. Why did you want to see me?”

Trying to ignore the condescending tone, Jeremiah straightened up. _Stay focused._ “I need some men.”

Oswald took a sip from the wine glass by his elbow. “Oh yes, don’t we all.”

“To work on a project I’ve begun.” he finished, exasperated. He’d known Cobblepot wouldn’t willingly give up any of his subordinates, especially if he didn’t see a clear benefit, but he was prepared for that, too. He was _always_ prepared now…knowing the risk of a plan going wrong had caused him to be more cautious in his recent endeavors. “In the Granton district.”

“That’s where you’ve been hiding out, is it? You know, there’s been talk that you left the city entirely. No one’s seen you in these past few months, and people have been speculating you may have escaped because you didn’t want to be involved in all this chaos.”

“They’re calling me a coward?” he asked impassively. Cobblepot shrugged.

“You haven’t exactly been doing yourself any social favors, my boy.”

Bristling at the patronizing comment, Jeremiah retorted, “Maybe I wasn’t trying to stay in the spotlight.” _Maybe I had reasons for what I’ve been doing, did you ever consider that, Oswald?_

“It’s what Jerome would have done.”

“As you may or may not be aware,” he gritted, eyes flashing with renewed anger, “I am not simply a copy of my brother.”

“It may be better if you were. He had an eye for showmanship, insufferable as he might have been.”

“Will you,” Jeremiah drew in a deep breath, steadying his voice, “consider allowing me to borrow some of your men for my project?” He knew Cobblepot would likely say no, but there was no harm in asking. A bruise to his ego, maybe, but he could withstand that. 

“That depends.” he replied, cleaning off the barrel of the pistol. “On what sort of collateral you’re offering.”

Without a word, Jeremiah pulled out his own pistol from his pocket, the safety switch clicking in the silence as he leveled it at the man’s face. Oswald stared, his hands tightening around the unloaded gun he was holding.

“The guards were supposed to remove all weapons.” he said slowly, a faint edge of agitation in his tone. Jeremiah smirked.

“I grew up in a circus. Sleight of hand sort of comes as second nature.” 

“Hmm.” Cobblepot’s jaw tensed, and his eyes flickered to the closed door, behind which the guards were waiting. Jeremiah tilted his head.

“Would you like to risk it? You _could_ call them in here to apprehend me if you believe they really could move faster than a bullet. You could assign yourself a death sentence within the next and possibly final minute of your life so I won’t be able to leave this place with what I want.” His finger rested on the trigger. “Or you could give it to me willingly.”

The older man laced his fingers together, propping them under his chin as he stared at the pistol barrel pointed between his eyes. “Might I offer you a small piece of advice while we have this time together, Valeska?”

Jeremiah didn’t move. “If that’s really how you want to spend your last moments, be my guest.”

“Very gracious of you.” he said bitingly. “Anyway, as far as advice goes, I would suggest you use a lighter shade of lipstick in the future, dark red doesn’t exactly go with a corpselike pallor. Neither does that…what is it, turquoise hair?” He gestured in the general direction the boy’s face. “I’m not exactly sure what sort of look you’re going for here, but I would find a fashion consultant in the future before making any further choices of that nature.”

Jeremiah scowled at him, silently cursing Jonathan Crane for his involvement in that decision— _“You have to accentuate your features or they’ll be washed out”,_ he’d said, and Jeremiah had believed him because he had no reason not to—but didn’t let the comment faze him. He knew Cobblepot had a knack for getting under people’s skin, even when his life was hanging in the balance, and right now he was trying to distract Jeremiah from what he’d come here to do. He gripped the pistol tighter.

“I’ll take that into consideration.” he said between his teeth, wishing the roof of the former city hall would spontaneously collapse on the smug figure sitting in front of him. “Now, returning to the original topic, will you give me what I want, or do I have to kill you?”

Looking somewhat disgruntled that his tactics hadn’t worked, Oswald shrugged again, begrudgingly this time. “Very well. I have enough other workers to spare a few, I suppose.”

“Very reasonable of you.” This time it was Jeremiah’s turn to be condescending, and he enjoyed it immensely. “If you could have them sent to the old shipping warehouse in the Granton district later today, I’d appreciate it. And if you try to use this as an opportunity to sabotage me, just remember that I built the bombs that turned this city into the anarchy it is now. I have a substantial amount of firepower backing me up if I need to defend myself, and I doubt it would go well for you.”

Fury was evident on Cobblepot’s face, and Jeremiah smiled at it. After a moment, the man nodded. “Understood.”

“Thank you.” He tucked the pistol away, smoothing out his jacket and turning to the door. As he turned the handle, the other’s voice called to him,

“Do you mind if I inquire as to the nature of this…project?”

Jeremiah glanced over his shoulder, pale eyes glittering with an unsettling light. Oswald stared back, trying not to show any apprehension on his face. For a moment, the boy looked exactly like Jerome, and that brought back too many unpleasant memories for the king of Gotham to dwell on. 

_He’s more insane than his brother ever was._ he thought, wishing that his own pistol had been loaded and he could have stopped this maniac for good.

“No.” Jeremiah said finally, and Cobblepot tensed, wondering if he’d accidentally voiced his thoughts aloud. Then he realized his question was being answered. “I don’t think you need to know.”

“Of course, I was only wondering…”

“Well, don’t.” Jeremiah looked very defensive all of a sudden, and his grip on the door handle tightened. “Just get the men to where they need to be and don’t ask questions.”

“Very well.”

Jeremiah smiled stiffly, something dangerous in his expression, almost daring the other man to keep pressing the matter to see what would happen. Searching for conflict, even if he didn’t realize it himself.

Then, without another word, he pushed the door open and disappeared outside, leaving Oswald Cobblepot alone with an empty pistol and a much-shaken demeanor at the encounter.

\+ + + + + + +

“You’re running yourself into the ground.” Ecco protested, standing behind her former employer and running a hand gently over his shoulders as he sat hunched over a makeshift desk in the dark warehouse that sat on the edge of the Granton district. This particular area of the city had been dubbed “The Dark Zone” because of the unidentified hostile forces that populated it, so lethal that even the GCPD tried to stay away rather than risking the chance of an officer going missing or being killed. Jeremiah had, in the past few months, gathered up the equivalent of a small army to guard the Dark Zone, some of them previous followers of Jerome, some of them Arkham escapees, all of them fully aware that they would die a very unpleasant death if they betrayed him. Jonathan Crane and Jervis Tetch had claimed other parts of the city as their own districts, but they were over in the Dark Zone often enough, and Jeremiah’s legion of guards knew better than to cross either of them if they wanted to stay alive.

“Can't you take just a small break? Give yourself some time to rest.” Ecco continued, and Jeremiah glanced at her absentmindedly before turning back to the design he was sketching out on the paper he held. “You won’t succeed if you’re dead on your feet, you know. And there’s still plenty of time for you to work out this plan.”

“No, there isn’t.” he contradicted her, pencil scratching across the paper as he spoke. “In fact, there’s very little time at all. That’s why I had Oswald send over more men. We’ve got to work faster if the tunnel will be complete in time…I’ve been hearing talk of reunification to the mainland once GCPD backup arrives, and that would ruin everything.”

“But no one can get past the harbor.” she said comfortingly. “Not with the land mines in the river.”  
“Not yet. But they’ll find a way soon enough. That’s just a temporary setback for them, and it doesn’t give us an excuse to work less. The tunnel _has_ to be finished.”

Ecco hesitated, knowing it could be dangerous to speak with him when he was preoccupied, but her curiosity got the better of her. “Do you mind…” she began, glancing over her shoulder at the small crowd of workers clustered around the entrance of the underground tunnel, lanterns sparking in the darkness and the sound of shovels hitting gravel with monotonous regularity. “Do you mind telling me what all this is for?” He looked up at her sharply, studying her face. “I mean,” Ecco continued, hoping she didn’t seem unnerved by his expression, although she certainly _was,_ “I know it has something to do with Bruce Wayne, but I don’t understand how it fits in to everything.”

“Of course you don’t.” he said cooly, and Ecco winced. He’d become more withdrawn from her during these past few months, the final semblances of who he used to be disappearing beneath a mask of indifference. She tried to tell herself she liked this new version of him…hadn’t she always wanted him to be self-assured, wanted him to do everything she knew he could? She was _supposed_ to like it, but she couldn't help but miss some aspects of who he used to be. 

He’d never truly cared for her, not in the way she’d secretly wanted him to, but he had at least been her _friend._ He’d even confided in her on occasion, _appreciated_ her…now Ecco sometimes felt like little more than a subordinate, an extra set of hands to help him complete his plan.

She missed the time when there had been at least a chance that he could have loved her.

“You know I would keep it a secret for you.” she pressed, unwilling to drop the subject even if it would annoy him. Jeremiah sighed, setting down the pencil and turning around to face her.

“It’s not so much that,” he said, gaze drifting over to the tunnel entrance, “as it is I don’t have the _time_ to explain my plan to everyone who wants to know.”

“Not everyone.” She fought to keep her expression clear from showing how his words hurt her. Since when had she become nothing more than a faceless member of his followers? Hadn’t she always been at least a little bit more than that? “Just me. You could do that, couldn’t you, Jeremiah?”

He turned back to the design structure he was drawing, picking up the piece of paper that sat underneath it. Ecco gazed over his shoulder, reading the headline that stared up at her, above the two pictures of Gotham’s now-dead resident billionaires. “To tell you the truth,” he admitted after a drawn-out silence, “it’s a little difficult to explain.”

“The plan, you mean?” she prompted, a shot of hope rushing through her. Even if he wasn’t going to completely disclose the details, at least he wasn’t pushing her away. “What’s so difficult about it?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Her face fell at that. “No one can really understand. No one but us.”

Ecco clenched her hands into fists. She knew Jeremiah was doing all this for Bruce Wayne…knew that the young billionaire was the sole focus of her former employer and that his desire for rekindled friendship bordered on—no, _was_ an obsession. 

And it had been for a long time.

But that didn’t make it any less painful to know that _she_ was being cast aside because of Jeremiah’s desperation to drag Bruce Wayne back to him.

It didn’t soften the blow of knowing that, no matter what she did, it would never matter as much as his compulsive need to be something he wasn’t.

Ecco knew Jeremiah had always shirked away from the truth of who he was: the brother of one of Gotham’s most feared criminal lunatics. Whether it was because he didn’t want to be compared to Jerome, didn’t want to be seen as no more than an imitation of his twin, or because he was so fixated on the belief that he was better than him, he’d always tried to deny who he really was.

And that had made him turn to Bruce Wayne to construct a new sort of identity for himself that never existed in the first place and never would.

_Bruce is like the brother he always wanted._

_The family he always wanted._

And Ecco couldn’t help the jealousy that welled up in her at that acknowledgment.

Because _she_ had always been there for Jeremiah…she had never abandoned him, never ignored him…

_Will I ever be enough for you?_

“Well,” she said aloud, twisting the hems of her sleeves around her wrists, “there’s a group of new recruits waiting upstairs.” She nodded up at the ceiling to the abandoned factory above them. “I should…I should go see to them.” 

He absentmindedly passed her a pistol sitting on the desk and Ecco took it, checking the chamber for the single bullet inside. “How many recruits this time?” 

She shrugged. “About seven. To their credit, it _is_ difficult to navigate the Dark Zone without getting killed within the first five minutes, so whoever survives the test,” she motioned to the side of her head with the barrel of the gun, “will be a valuable addition to the group.”

“Yes.” Ecco could tell he wasn’t really listening to her anymore. And knowing Jeremiah, it was pointless to keep a conversation going when he was preoccupied. With a stifled sigh, she turned away, keeping an eye on the shadowy figures working on the tunnel before starting up the rickety wooden stairs in the corner of the room toward the waiting recruits above.

\+ + + + + + + + +

“You really think you’re going to stop me?”

“I won’t let you kill him. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

Selina laughed bitterly, her eyes flashing as her hand tightened around the whip at her side. Bruce stared back at her, his expression serious, silently pleading with her to reconsider.

“Do what to myself?” She took an almost threatening step toward him. Bruce didn’t move. “Get the revenge I’ve been wanting for the past _three months?_ After that goddamn lunatic tried to _kill_ me?”

“I can’t, Selina.” he said quietly. “I can’t let that happen.”

“Bruce, the reason he shot me was to get to _you.”_ The look in her eyes was dangerous now, like a predator closing on on its prey as she came even closer. Bruce suppressed a shiver but didn’t back down. “The least you can do is let me kill him. And,” she continued as he opened his mouth to protest, “it doesn’t matter what you think. It doesn’t matter if you believe this will _corrupt_ me. It’s what _I_ want to do, and you aren’t going to stop me.”

They were standing in the shadow of an old apartment building, debris and rubble all around as they kept out of sight of the guards that filled the Dark Zone, and Bruce looked around nervously. “Selina—”

"If you're worried about someone hearing us, don’t be. Unlike you, _I’m_ not afraid to do what’s necessary.” Her hand went to the knife strapped to her belt. Bruce’s lips tightened.

“I only brought you with me so we could _find_ him. You can’t let yourself become a murderer because you want revenge, Selina. You’re not like that.”

“Maybe I don’t want you telling me who I am.” she retorted. Betrayal shone in her eyes. “And I thought you would understand.”

“I do…I do understand, I just don’t want…”

“If you understood, you would let me do this.”

He shook his head. “I was there, Selina. I know what happened. But will it really help anyone if you try to kill him in return?”

“I’m not doing this to help anyone.” she gritted. “I’m doing it because he _deserves_ it. He deserves to die for what he’s done.”

“I know.” Bruce could barely remember a time when the three of them had been friends…it seemed like so long ago. _How did it all fall apart?_ “I know, Selina, but…”

“I hated that hospital room.” she interrupted him, hand closing around the knife. “I hated knowing that I might never leave. And I _hated_ Jeremiah for taking everything away from me. All I wanted—the _only_ thing I wanted—was to see him dead. I didn’t believe I would ever get to kill him, but I thought about it every day. Thought about how I could show him he _hadn’t_ killed me, and how it was his turn. And now…” She spread her arms wide. “Now I _can._ And you aren’t going to stop me.”

“Selina, when I went to Ivy to get something to help you come back, I didn’t want _this.”_ As soon as he spoke, Bruce knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

“ _Oh._ ” She looked furious now, practically shaking with anger. A vicious smile crossed her face, but there was a shadow of hurt lingering in her eyes. “You’re wishing you hadn’t done that now?”

“No, I—”

“Because I’m not who _you_ want me to be.” she finished, ignoring his interruption. “You’d rather have me stuck in a hospital bed for the rest of my life wishing I was dead rather than this?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Bruce? Because it sounded a lot like that.”

“I only meant that killing Jeremiah isn’t going to make you feel any better about this. It’s not going to help you.”

“I’m not looking for help.” She kicked a pebble across the cracked concrete sidewalk, watching it skitter off into the darkness. “I just want to give him what he deserves.”

“But—”

“If you’re only going to try and stop me,” she said decidedly, stepping back away from him, “then you can just leave.” 

“Selina, please listen to me.” he pleaded. “I really am thinking about _you._ What you need. That’s all I want, because you’re—” He trailed off.

_Because I love you._

“Well, don’t. If that’s how you’re going to think about me, then don’t. Just leave me alone.”

Before he could say another word, she turned and sprinted off into the darkness, disappearing from sight around the corner of the apartment building. Left alone, Bruce blinked, startled at her sudden escape from the conversation, then ran after her, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

He understood what she wanted…there were times when he too halfway wanted to see Jeremiah dead for good. When the part of him that remembered their friendship dwindled down to almost nothing and he couldn't see him as anything other than a threat to Gotham who had to be taken down. But he couldn’t let it happen…even now, he felt an almost crushingly heavy responsibility to the boy who used to be his best friend, and he wouldn’t allow him to die like that.

Bruce hated that he felt that way…it would have been so much easier if he was willing to let Selina have whatever she wanted and rid the world of the insanity Jeremiah was spreading through the entire city…but he couldn’t change it. Couldn’t suppress what he knew was true.

And now he had to stop Selina before it was too late.

\+ + + + + + + + +

“Selina Kyle.” Ecco said breathlessly, wiping blood off the deep scratch that ran along her cheekbone. Jeremiah’s shoulders tensed and he turned to stare at her, disbelief written across his features.

“What?”

“She’s alive. And she’s here.”

“Alive?” he echoed, his eyes narrowing as he followed her across the room.

“Very. Looking for you, too. From the way she’s acting, she really wants to kill you.”

“Oh.” Jeremiah smiled, turning back to watch the workers continue on the tunnel. Ecco didn’t miss the shadow that crossed his face, a hint of disappointment. And anger at himself for not succeeding in killing Selina for good. But he controlled it, and to anyone who didn’t know to look for such telltale signs, he would have seemed as impassive as ever. “What do you mean when you say she’s here? Here, as in, the Dark Zone?”

“In the building.” 

Jeremiah glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised. “Really.” There was a pause. “I may need to speak with some of the guards about their security standards.”

She shifted back and forth on her feet, watching him nervously. _Why isn’t he worried? She’s going to try to kill him. And he doesn’t even care._ Sometimes she couldn’t even begin to understand the things Jeremiah thought…one moment he could be wholeheartedly absorbed in a problem he was so intent on fixing that he didn’t think of anything else, and then he could turn around and act as if someone trying to murder him was the least of his worries. 

Sometimes it scared her, because she knew it could be his downfall.

“She’s looking for you. Don’t you think—”

“Oh, I’ll go find her.” he said airily, and she could see he was masking the irritation that burned beneath the surface. “Thank you, Ecco.”

She watched him leave, disappearing up the stairs, before turning back to the recruits. The fight against the other girl once she’d realized Selina was in the building hadn’t been pretty…Bruce Wayne’s girlfriend wasn’t afraid to throw herself all in to an assault, and Ecco had barely escaped to tell Jeremiah she was here and looking for him. Part of her was confident in his abilities to stop Selina…he wasn’t trained in fighting like she was, but she was being driven by hate, and that made people sloppy. Ecco knew Jeremiah could most likely hold his own against Selina like this, but she still worried. Of course she worried…although her memory could get a little blurry when it came to remembering a time before Jerome had shot her and the incident with the insanity gas had happened, she could still recall what Jeremiah had been like before then.

And even if everyone else believed he had changed, Ecco knew part of him was still the same.

He was putting on an elaborate act, trying to prove he was invincible. Trying to prove that he could manipulate the entire city, because he was obsessed with the idea of being in control. Trying to upstage his dead brother, because he would do anything to be better than Jerome, to be remembered.

But beneath all that, he was only human.

And Ecco knew that any human could be taken down.

Upstairs, Jeremiah walked slowly through the shadowy building, his steps light and cautious. His eyes flickered back and forth, taking in even the tiniest flutter of motion in his line of sight. Closing his hand around the pistol he held even tighter, a small smile crossed his face. There was no humor in it, only a smoldering annoyance at his plan being interrupted yet _again._ And by Selina, no less.

_Funny to think we were ever friends._ he mused to himself. It _wasn’t_ funny, really…in fact, it brought back memories he would rather repress because it reminded him of a time when he’d been truly happy, a time when things had been so close to normal and he’d felt like he really belonged somewhere. But there had to be some humor in the irony somewhere, didn't there? He simply hadn’t figured out what it was, yet. 

_And it doesn’t matter anyway, because she’ll be gone soon enough._

_For good, this time._

The layout of the room in the old factory was unusual, if it could be called a room, with a high balcony spanning the perimeter along the wall, the ground almost a complete story below. The railing of the balcony was rusted and broken in some places, the metal snapped in two, and he kept safely away from it as he paced along the narrow ledge. If Selina was hiding in here, Jeremiah would find her soon enough…there wasn’t anywhere to stay out of sight. 

_I don’t have time for your games._

But, he told himself, once she was out of the way, he could go straight back to working on his plan. He hadn’t completed all the details yet, but the ideas were _there._ He knew what he would have to do, and it _would_ work this time. Bruce would do what Jeremiah wanted him to, one way or another.

He wouldn’t have any other choice.

"I was looking for you.”

A familiar voice broke the silence and Jeremiah froze, turning to see Selina standing on the opposite side of the room on the balcony, leaning against the metal railing and staring straight at him with a vengeful light in her eyes. He smiled.

“Hello, Selina.”

“You shot me. Tried to kill me.” She began pacing along the ledge toward the other side of the room, sticking close to the wall. He started walking in the opposite direction so they stayed the same distance apart, his eyes never leaving her face. She reached for the knife at her side, pulling it from its sheath and running the palm of her hand along the flat edge of the blade, which glimmered faintly in the shadows. 

“And now you’re here.” He kept smiling, keeping the pistol lowered until he could see her more clearly in the darkness.

_You won’t be walking out of here alive._

Selina smiled back fiercely, her muscles tensed like a snake about to strike as she kept walking towards him, the both of them skirting each other warily on the ledge that surrounded the room and the drop below.

“Yes.” The edge of the knife scraped across the metal railing as she dragged the blade across it, the sound reverberating jarringly in the quiet of the building. Jeremiah didn’t flinch, and Selina never broke eye contact with him in the darkness. 

“And now I’m going to kill _you.”_


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

“I suppose it wouldn’t do much good to ask how you managed to stay alive?” Jeremiah tilted his head as he continued to keep his distance from Selina, gun held low but at the ready. She examined the edge of her knife and kept walking toward him.

“No, it wouldn’t. Sorry.” 

“Does Bruce know you’re here?” The words hung in the still air between them, and Selina’s eyes flashed in the darkness.

“You don’t deserve to say his name.”

“I deserve it more than _anyone.”_ he snapped, voice suddenly harsh. Selina looked startled for a moment. “I’m the _only_ one who deserves it.”

“You made him hate you. You made us all hate you.” 

“He doesn’t hate me.”

She snorted. “You’re crazy.”

Jeremiah stopped walking for a moment, anger welling up inside him irrepressibly. Selina saw the look on his face and stopped too. They stood at opposite sides of the balcony, staring across the respective ledges at each other. Tension vibrated throughout the room like electricity, and Selina was the first to break the silence, her eyes boring into his as if she was trying to find something that wasn’t there.

“You don’t even remember, do you.” The way she said it was more of a statement than a question. 

As if she knew the answer already.

“Remember what?” he asked slowly, and the tiniest of bitter smiles crossed her face. A million emotions flitted over her features too quickly to decipher, and most of them were lost to the darkness surrounding them anyway. Jeremiah saw none of it.

“Any of it. Anything, before you became _this.”_ She gestured scornfully at him. “Everything that you destroyed.”

He stiffened. “Everything I did was to make things better.”

“Oh yeah, you made things a lot better when you put a bullet through my spine. Were we ever even friends in the first place? Or was _that_ all a trick, too? All those years, was that just one of your little _plans_ to get what you wanted?”  
Jeremiah didn’t answer, and Selina’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. She began walking toward him again, and he continued to keep his distance. 

They _had_ been friends. And Jeremiah did remember…he remembered all of it. Remembered when they had been happy together, all three of them, when they had been the closest thing to a real family he’d ever known.

For a moment, he almost regretted everything he’d done.

Not because he felt badly about it, but because he missed what they used to be.

He missed feeling like he _belonged_ somewhere. 

Like he mattered.

_“I don’t want anyone breaking up this ever again. It’s just us here, and that’s how it should be, right?”_ Selina’s voice from three years ago echoed in his mind, and Jeremiah didn’t want it to, because he knew then he would start to doubt himself, start to wonder if any of this was supposed to have happened.

If things were supposed to have changed at all.

If they could have gone on like that forever.

_“How it was before.”_

He remembered the look in her eyes when he’d pulled the trigger. _She_ had known longer than Bruce that Jeremiah had changed…she’d known it ever since he’d learned that she was working with Tabitha. But that was only part of it…she didn't know Jeremiah had been so certain she would steal Bruce away from him that the only reasonable option had been to shoot her so his best friend would never have an excuse to leave.

_When did everything change?_

_When did you stop believing in each other?_

_When did you start tearing everything apart?_

No, he hadn’t ruined everything. He hadn’t ruined _anything._ He was smarter than that, he knew what he was doing. The problem was that no one else understood, that had to be it. 

His lips curled into a smile as he spoke. “The past doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

“How can you—” Selina broke off as Jeremiah raised the gun and fired, and she ducked just as the bullet buried itself in the wall behind her. Cracks spiderwebbed out across the stone from where it had entered, and Selina looked back up at him with renewed caution.

“You really thought I wouldn’t be prepared?” Jeremiah lowered the gun, laughter creeping into his words. “You all call me insane, but I’m always one step ahead of everyone. I’m the most sane person on this hellhole of an island. You just refuse to acknowledge it.”

“Right, and it’s an island now because _you_ blew up the bridges with a shit ton of _bombs!”_ Selina retorted, her tone scathing. “Take what you will from that.”

He shot the pistol again, taking careful aim this time, but she jumped out of the way just before the bullet sped past, whistling through the air. 

“I knew you were going insane before anyone else did.” Selina continued relentlessly, her eyes sparking and dangerous now. Jeremiah glanced down at the pistol. He had one bullet left, and he wasn’t going to miss next time. He couldn’t miss, because he wasn’t going to let Selina get in the way anymore. He wasn’t going to let _anyone_ get in the way.

“I was the only one who saw it.” Her voice echoed in the silence, and Jeremiah scowled at her, dropping all pretenses of composure. 

_Just go away. Leave me alone. You’re ruining everything…_

“But no one listened to me. No one wanted to see the truth. _I_ didn’t want to see it, but at least I didn’t lie to myself instead.” Selina wasn’t smiling. In fact, her face was more serious that Jeremiah had ever seen it before. She was coming closer now, and he stood his ground instead of keeping away. If he didn’t want to waste the final bullet, he had to get a clear shot.

Selina gripped the knife tighter. “But now everyone knows it.”

“You never answered my question. Does Bruce know about this?” he asked suddenly, watching the conflict in her eyes appear again. After a moment, she nodded.

“He knows.”

“What does he think about it? You trying to kill me?”

She was closing in now, stalking carefully toward him, her stare fixed on the pistol he held, ready to jump out of the way at a moment’s notice. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”

“Oh, so he doesn’t approve.” 

_Of course he doesn’t._

The thought made him smile even more.

“I said it doesn’t matter.” Selina hissed.

“Are you prepared for what his reaction would be if you did kill me?” _Prepared for him to abandon you? Because that’s what he does the moment his friends stop being who he wants them to be._

_I should know._

“I don’t care what he thinks.” 

Jeremiah decided the conversation had gone on long enough for his liking. Besides, he had better things to do than stand around and argue with Selina. He lifted the gun, finger on the trigger.

_And you don't care what he thinks, either._

His grip faltered. When he pulled the trigger, the bullet missed Selina by several feet, and she didn’t even have to move out of the way. 

_If you cared, you wouldn’t be taking away the things that matter most to him._

_And you should know that._

He tried to ignore that. He didn’t want to think about it.

_Because you used to be a family._

Selina was right in front of him now, less than an arm’s length away. Jeremiah realized faintly that he’d used the final bullet in the pistol and now he didn’t have a weapon. And she still had a knife. If she wanted, she could…

She could…

He looked down.

“That’s for trying to kill me.” Selina said between her teeth, wrenching the knife out from where she had stabbed it, up to the handle, right below his ribcage. She twisted the blade to the side and Jeremiah staggered back against the wall, staring at her. Selina followed him, the knife now dripping with blood.

“And this is for everything you did to Bruce.” The blade flashed forward again before Jeremiah could try to get out of the way, and Selina wrapped a hand around his shoulder, dragging him closer. He kept staring at her, time felt suspended as if every second had slowed to half the usual pace, and all he could do was wait. 

Wait to realize what was happening, and realize that Selina was getting what _she_ wanted.

_She’s killing you she's killing you she’s killing you..._

The pain flared up with breathtaking suddenness, and he felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs as he choked on a strangled gasp. Selina wrenched the knife out, and his legs collapsed from underneath him as he slid to the floor. She crouched down beside him, all the repressed anger that she’d hidden away now written plainly across her face. The rage, the betrayal, the disappointment…he could see it all, but then his vision blurred when the mind-numbing sting of the knife came again. His hands twitched helplessly, his entire body unable to move no matter how hard he tried.

“That’s for what you did to Gotham.” Selina’s voice was steady, but her gaze darted across his face. Searching. Looking for the Jeremiah she had always known, even as she was killing him. 

His breath stuttered in his throat, and one hand finally wrapped around her wrist, trying to push her away. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp, still holding the bloody knife, and now there was something almost desperate in her eyes. 

“Selina—” he managed to rasp, doubling over as the pain rushed through him again. He couldn’t say anything else, everything hurt too much and he couldn’t focus and why wasn’t Bruce here to help him? Why hadn’t Bruce stopped her?

_Going to kill you…_

She shook her head, more to herself than him. She kept her eyes fixed on his, even when his gaze wavered and drifted away from her. He was trembling now beneath her, his hands coming up to press against his chest, blood seeping in between his fingers. 

Selina shivered, but kept her expression as stoic as she could. “This is for listening to Jerome.” Her words stung more than the next stab of the knife, and Jeremiah felt involuntary tears prick at the back of his eyes. He wasn't sure what they were for.

“I…I d-didn’t…”

“You didn’t have to become like him. You didn’t have to betray all of us.” 

His breath hissed between his teeth as she dragged the knife out again. But he managed to respond, his voice breathless and strained. “I was n-never like…never like h-him.”

“No.” The knife hovered in midair and Jeremiah stared at it, stared at the blood dripping to the ground, trying to focus on her voice because he knew otherwise he might black out for good. 

“No,” Selina repeated quietly, but her voice seemed too loud, too close, and even though he knew it was just his senses being overwhelmed by the shock of it all, it was unbearable. “you aren’t like him.” Her eyes darkened. “You’ve become something worse.”

He tried to force himself to sit upright, but she pushed him down again and his back hit the wall painfully, jarring the knife wounds that slashed across his abdomen. Some hazy part of his brain was annoyed that she had ruined the jacket he was wearing…there would be no way to get the bloodstains out of that, and he’d _liked_ that jacket.

Selina's voice brought him back into the moment. “Why’d you have to do this?” The words sounded choked, and if he could see her face, he would have noticed the sadness hidden beneath the anger. _Regret._

His hands curled weakly into fists, uncontrollable shudders of pain wracking his body. _Bruce, please, please stop her, please…_ She placed a hand flat against his chest and a suppressed whimper hovered on his lips, his eyes shining with hot tears. He hated this, hated it because he wasn’t in control, he couldn’t keep up the facade of staunch tenacity because he _wasn’t_ indestructible, he wasn’t, no matter what he wanted anyone to believe—what he wanted _himself_ to believe—and now she would see that. They would _both_ see it. 

_You’re not unbreakable._

_You never have been._

“ _Why,_ Jeremiah?” The desperation was back on her face now, so strong that the hatred was nearly gone. Seeing him like this reminded her too much of who he used to be…too much for her to hate him as much as she had before. And yet somehow, she _did_ still hate him, because he had ruined everything for them and for _himself,_ and she didn’t know how else she could feel about that. Didn’t know who else to blame, because _he_ was the one who had made all the mistakes. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”

He laughed, unable to do anything else, but it sounded more like a broken sob, and Selina’s hand curled around the lapel of his jacket, pulling him closer, her eyes still fixed on his face. He could see that she _did_ hate him, but only the part that he was now. She didn’t hate who he had been before…that was the part she wanted to come back. But he couldn’t, because that part of him was gone, he’d killed it just the same as he’d killed Jerome all those years ago in that penthouse, because he couldn’t bear the thought of it being a part of him anymore.

“He’s missed you, Miah.” Selina said softly, and Jeremiah blinked dazedly at the change in her tone. 

_He’s…_

Who was she talking about?

_Bruce._

There was a tortuously long silence between them, broken only by his ragged breathing, as they stared at one another in the darkness on the balcony of the abandoned factory room. Selina looked down at the blood staining her hands and the ends of her sleeves, down at the knife she still held, then turned back to Jeremiah. “We’ve missed you.”

He stared back. _Let me back in, please let me back in, I want to go back with you, I want things to be like they were before, that’s all I’ve ever wanted…_

Was it?

_You want to be a nobody again?_

_You want to hide away forever?_

_You want everyone to leave you someday, because they would have no reason to stay if you never amounted to anything…that’s what you really want?_

His eyes hardened, despite the tears that still clung to his lashes and streaked down his face, and his lips trembled into a cold smile. Every breath was agonizingly difficult now, and everything felt cold. Some part of his brain whispered, _blood loss, she stabbed you four times, you have to fix it,_ but he still couldn’t move. Instead, he focused every final scrap of energy he possessed on Selina…he wasn’t going to let her trick him, wasn't going to let her coerce him into losing everything he worked for.

_What does it matter? You’re going to die here. She’s going to kill you._

_No, you can't die. Not yet. Not until…_

“I’m not…going back.” he whispered, his voice breaking and wavering, but still audible.

_You can’t make me do anything._

Selina’s eyes narrowed. 

There was no desperation now, no lingering hope that maybe it wasn’t too late for him.

Only resignation.

Resignation that they would continue to hate each other no matter what happened. 

And she _did_ hate him. There was nothing holding her back now. No sympathy, no regret. She knew it was too late for any of that. 

Too late for them both.

Selina let go of his coat lapel, and Jeremiah slumped back against the wall, his breath shallow and erratic. He couldn’t see straight anymore, and everything was blurring into a dark oblivion. It was so _cold,_ and everything hurt, and he remembered that he hated her too.

She clutched the knife tighter than before, one hand pressed against the wall behind him as she leaned in close. In the darkness, her green eyes were oddly catlike and luminescent. 

Almost inhuman.

Jeremiah didn’t look away.

“This,” Selina whispered, her voice low and echoing in the high-ceilinged room, as the knife flashed in front of his face again and he jerked back as the sharp impact sent spasms of pain throughout his entire body, “is for leaving us behind.”

“Selina!”

Her head snapped up when she heard the voice that interrupted the sudden silence between them, and she turned to see Bruce standing on the other side of the balcony, across the room. He was staring at her in the darkness, his eyes wide and unbelieving, as if, despite what she had told him, he hadn’t truly thought she would follow through with her word. Wrenching the knife out of the trembling figure huddled on the ground, she straightened up abruptly.

“Selina, get away from him.” Bruce gripped the rusty handle of the balcony. She stared back.

“This isn’t about you, Bruce.” She dropped the knife to the ground, and it clattered beside Jeremiah’s hand. He thought that maybe if he could reach for it, he could kill her, but he couldn’t convince himself to move, and in any case, his eyes were fastened on Bruce, who was watching them from the shadows.

“Selina…”

“Just leave me alone.” she said sharply. 

“What did you—”

“ _Don’t.”_ Before Bruce could process what was happening, she had darted to the other side of the room, not neglecting to retrieve her knife in the process, and was now in front of him. “Let’s just go.”

“We can’t go, he…”

“He _deserves_ this.” she snapped, shoving him back toward the doorway and blocking his view of Jeremiah. Bruce tried to sidestep her, his gaze darting back and forth between them, but Selina grabbed his arm, holding the knife dangerously close to his face. “You aren’t going to save him this time.” Bruce stared wordlessly at her. Selina pushed him further into the doorway, back toward the shadows. “Please.”

“No, I can’t, I have to help him.” Bruce pleaded, and Selina scowled.

“You _don’t._ You don’t, Bruce. What do you think’s going to happen? How are things going to change?”

“That’s not the _point!”_

“Then what—” She broke off as the sound of another voice interrupted their argument, further down the hall in the darkness beyond.

“Jeremiah?”

They glanced at each other, Bruce’s expression torn. Selina knew he wanted to stay, wanted to help Jeremiah after what she’d done, despite everything that had happened. But they both knew what would happen if they were caught here…it had been nearly a death sentence just venturing into the Dark Zone in the first place.

“Go.” Selina hissed, latching her hand around Bruce’s wrist and pushing him away. He tossed a helpless glance over his shoulder, but didn’t resist.

They narrowly missed running straight into Ecco, who stopped, stock-still, in the doorway, staring across the balcony at Jeremiah, whose eyes had closed shut as his head lolled to the side lifelessly.

Her mind blanked for a moment, everything refusing to process itself in her thoughts.

_What…_

Her hands tightened into fists at her sides.

_No._

And then she could think again, and she was running across the balcony, kicking aside the broken pieces of metal piping that had once formed part of the railing. On the other side, she dropped to her knees, gathering him up in her arms and holding back the sobs that threatened to rise to her throat. 

_No no no no no…_

There was blood on her hands now, everywhere, and she didn’t know what to do, she didn’t know how to help, and she realized that she had just missed the attacker by seconds, maybe even passed them as she’d gone to search for Jeremiah. 

The attacker…

Selina.

_It was Selina._

She shut her eyes tightly, shaking all over, and clung on tighter to him, guilt stinging her heart like a million sharp needles.

_You were too late._

_Too late to help him._

She ignored the tears that ran down her cheeks, her breath coming in shivery gasps as she tried to figure out what to do, because she didn’t know, she didn’t know, and she had never felt so helpless, she’d never felt like she’d let someone down this badly.

_You weren’t enough._

Ecco pressed her lips to the side of his pallid, still face, smoothing his hair out of his eyes, and wrapped a hand around his wrist to see if there was even a hint of a pulse. _Please, please be all right, please, you can’t leave me, you can’t, you have to stay…_

“I love you.” she whispered, the words muffled and trembling. She knew he couldn’t hear her, and she wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. “I _love_ you.”

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them._

_I was supposed to protect you…_

She froze when she felt the flutter of a pulse beneath her fingers, and her eyes snapped open, her line of vision swimming from the tears that still filled them.

_You’re not too late._

_Not too…_

_What am I supposed to do?_

She knew she needed to find someone to help, needed to do _something_ other than sitting there with the prone figure huddled limply against her chest, but she couldn’t, she could only cling on to him tighter, the blood drying on her hands as they sat in the darkness and silence of the empty room.

“Hold on.” she whispered, her voice trembling and breaking. She didn’t even try to control it anymore. “Hold on, okay? I know you can. You have to. You _can,_ just…just do it for me, okay? Do it for…”

Her voice trailed off.

_But he doesn’t care about you. Doesn’t care enough._

_That’s not what he needs._

Ecco drew a deep breath, ducking her head so their faces were almost touching. She wanted him to open his eyes, wanted to be reassured that she _wasn’t_ too late, but that was a useless fantasy that wasn’t going to help her. 

“Do it for Bruce Wayne, all right?” she finally said. He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. “He…he’d want you to. He wouldn’t want…”

She choked on the words, her hands curling into the bloodstained coat he wore, feeling like there were heavy weights pressing in on all sides and she couldn’t push them away.

_You have to stay with me._

Her fingers frantically tried to feel for a pulse again, but it was hard to pick up anything when her own heartbeat was so loud, too loud, in the silence.

_Please stay with me._

_I love you._

Her tears fell faster now, and she wished she could figure out what to do, wished she could be useful, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Because that would mean she would have to leave him, and she couldn’t do that. She could never do that.

Her voice was faint, wavering, when she spoke again, so quiet that it barely reached above the softest of whispers.

_“I love you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think in the comments! :)


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to Cameron Monaghan for winning Best Villain (honestly should be villains, plural??) at the TCA and for giving us the two best crazy ginger bois we could ask for and write fanfic about (and the crispy post-acid rat boi who's just as valid even if he didn't have hair) <3

**Chapter Twelve**

"Where are you going?”

Ecco glanced over her shoulder at Jonathan, her eyes hollow and rimmed with dark circles as she shoved a pistol into her belt. “I have to kill Selina Kyle.”

“Woah, hang on.” Jonathan sprang across the room, blocking her from stepping out the door. Ecco stared up at him blankly, then tried to push past him. Jonathan shook his head. “You can’t do that.”

“I very well can. And I’m going to. So get out of my way.” There was something dangerous in her voice now, and Jonathan would have been intimidated if he didn’t know her well enough.

“Can’t _let_ you do that, then.”

“Aren’t you _busy?”_ she snapped, glaring at him. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot and glassy, indicators of the fact she hadn’t slept for the past two days, but her expression was resolute enough. Jonathan shrugged.

“Yeah, and I’ll be busier if someone hauls another mangled body back here for me to oversee.” When she was silent, he rolled his eyes. “Meaning, yours.”

“I can kill that girl easily enough. She won’t get a chance to lay a hand on me.” Ecco spat.

“Oh right, I’ll bet _he_ said the same thing.” Jonathan placed both his hands on her shoulders and turned her around, forcing Ecco to look at the prone figure huddled underneath a blanket in the corner of the room. She shivered, ducking away from his grasp.

“I have t—”

_“No.”_ Jonathan said decidedly. “There’s no point in risking your life for revenge. And anyway, it’s not like killing her will be any help.” He picked up the battered notebook that sat neglected on a side table. It was where Jeremiah kept all his notes and ideas for his plan, and no one had ever dared look at a single page aside from him. Ecco took it almost possessively, smoothing out the cover as her lips quivered from withheld tears.

“I’m not supposed to—” she began, reluctantly trying to put the notebook back, but Jonathan stopped her. 

“If you really want to be useful, then you’ll help him with that,” he tapped the cover of the book, “rather than hunting down some kid who tried to kill him.”

Ecco frowned. “Why do you care? I thought you didn’t approve of his plan.”

“I don’t.” Jonathan shifted back and forth on his feet. Never in a million years would he admit to anyone aside from himself (and even _that_ was a stretch) that he possibly sort of cared about the only remaining Valeska. He would never admit either that he’d accidentally become too invested in looking out for the other and now felt responsible for anything that happened to him. And he _definitely_ wouldn’t admit that he had been duly impressed at the incident with the brides and how Gotham had been reduced to a anarchist wasteland with just a few bombs and a bit of improvisation (sure, that had been orchestrated mainly by the now-dead Ra’s al Ghul, but it was impossible to ignore who had really been the mastermind behind it all). 

So instead, he gave Ecco a glare that he hoped dispelled any notion that he, Jonathan Crane, the feared Scarecrow, had any sort of emotional attachment to _anything._ “I don’t care,” he repeated, looking down his nose at Ecco, “I’m just giving you advice. I’m more _experienced_ in this line of work than you are, so I thought you’d like to hear what I have to say.”

“Oh sure, you’re experienced.” she said bitterly, clutching the notebook to her chest. “Just because you were locked up in Arkham doesn’t elevate you to an omnipotent god of crime.”

“Okay, fine.” Jonathan shrugged, stepping aside to clear the path to the door. “Go, then. You can try to kill that girl, see if I care. You clearly don’t want my suggestions.”

“No, I don’t.” She shouldered her way past him, still holding the notebook, and disappeared out the door. Jonathan listened to her footsteps fade away into the distance, then shrugged airily, though there was no one around to observe his nonchalance.

“Your funeral.” 

\+ + + + + + + + +

Bruce stood in the hallway of Wayne Manor, staring up at the family portrait on the wall. It was past midnight, and he hadn’t been able to sleep. Hadn’t for the past two nights.

The portrait looked different in the shadows. He could barely make out the features of himself, or his mother and father.

_This is your family._

_Nothing more, nothing less._

_Just this._

His chest felt heavy with something he couldn’t identify. Like a storm had gathered inside him, chipping away at everything else until there was nothing but darkness left, and there wasn’t any way to stop it.

_You know exactly why._

Bruce blinked, his eyes burning for how long he’d been staring at the picture motionlessly. _And that’s the only reason._ He stepped back, intending to leave and try to go back to sleep, but somehow he couldn’t drag his eyes away. 

_He needed you._

A gust of cold air rushed through the hallway and Bruce shivered. Was there a window open somewhere?

He thought he heard footsteps behind him, soft and light in the silence.

“Alfred?” he whispered without turning around. If the butler saw him here, he would have questions, no doubt. 

And Bruce wasn’t sure if he had answers.

“No.”

He tensed at the familiar voice, memories from what felt like a million years ago crashing through his brain with an intensity so sharp he had to close his eyes. 

_You’re gone._

The voice was soft. “Alfred’s not here.”

“What did you do to him?” Bruce still didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. He couldn’t face what he knew stood behind him. _Who_ stood behind him.

“Nothing.” The voice sounded almost shocked at the suggestion. “But he’s not here.” There was a beat of silence. Bruce listened for the sound of the other’s breathing, and there was nothing. He only heard his own, shallow and rushed and too loud in the silence.

The shadows had almost entirely immersed the faces on the portrait by now. Only the eyes were visible. They didn’t look like the eyes he knew so well. His mother and father…his _family._

“It’s just us.” the voice whispered, and Bruce thought maybe he had heard wrong. He knew the voice, knew it all too well, knew it because how could he _not,_ how could he ever forget it…but there was something different. Something that he hadn’t heard in a long time. 

Something that wasn’t quite evil yet.

_Before all this began…_

“I’m sorry.” Bruce murmured, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. His eyes were burning again, and he almost wanted tears to fall, but none came. He thought maybe the eyes in the portrait were watching him now, following his every move with their eyes that glowed in the shadows.

“What for?” The voice was quietly inquisitive now, and Bruce felt a soft breath on the back of his neck. They were close now, but he wasn’t afraid of being stabbed in the back or anything of the sort. Wasn’t afraid of being in danger.

The person who was behind him would never do that. Not to anyone.

_Not then._

_Not back then._

“It’s selfish of me.” Bruce admitted, forcing himself to look away from those eyes in the portrait that burrowed into his soul, and were they even the eyes of his parents and himself from all those years ago? Or were they the eyes of strangers, glowing and silvery and inhuman, that stared down at him?

He knew eyes like that well enough.

_“What did he do?”_

And suddenly they weren’t in the hallway of the manor anymore. They were on the top floor of the Wayne Enterprises building, and Bruce was staring out the window at the colorless wasteland below. Black smoke rose up from the tangled web of broken buildings and torn-up streets, the faint, small figures of the remaining Gothamites huddled in groups below. He was so engrossed in the destruction beneath him that he didn’t question why they were here now, or how they had gotten there.

Standing in the same place they had stood before, when he had first seen Jeremiah after Jerome had died.

_“What did he do to you? What happened?”_

He didn’t want to look behind him now.

“You’re not selfish.” the voice hurried to say, and Bruce could see the faint reflection in the glass of a figure standing behind him. He didn’t focus on it for long. “You’re never selfish.”

“I am.” Bruce slowly ran one hand down the pane of glass, feeling as if the dust and grime that coated the outside of it would come off under his touch, but it stayed in place. There was an explosion of gunfire somewhere down below in the streets, and he didn’t even move. Didn’t look down. There was nothing he could do anymore. “I’m incredibly selfish. Because I want you back, and not for your sake.” His voice caught in his throat and he pulled his hand away from the glass as if it had burned him. “I want you back because I miss you.”

Jeremiah stepped up alongside him, his eyes studying Bruce’s face. The latter didn’t look back at him.

“That isn’t selfish.” There was more gunfire now, and the foundation of the building seemed to shake. Bruce watched numbly as the glass pane in front of him grew a million tiny cracks that streamed out in every direction. “It’s what friends do.” Jeremiah didn’t seem to care that the building they were standing in could collapse at any moment. His eyes never left Bruce’s. “What brothers are supposed to do.”

“Maybe.” Bruce finally turned to look at him. The first thing he noticed was the warmth that shone in Jeremiah’s brown eyes behind his glasses. There was nothing malicious there, and Bruce had almost forgotten what that was like. He wished he could still forget…it was simpler that way.

Easier, almost.

He didn’t question why things had reverted to how they used to be.

The second thing Bruce noticed was the bloodstain that darkened the front of his friend’s _(you’re not friends not friends not friends)_ white shirt, and the blood dripping from his hands that were entangled in the ruined fabric, calmly but futilely trying to keep himself alive.

_Stay alive…_

_Was he ever alive after what happened?_

“I lost you.” The guilt hung heavily in Bruce’s voice. The glass in the window began to break, and the dry, smoke-filled breeze from outside crept in through the cracks. “And all I wanted was to find you again. But you wouldn’t let me.”

_Jerome killed him._

_Killed who he used to be._

_And he let himself die._

“I’ve always been right here.” Bruce looked over at Jeremiah again when the latter spoke. His eyes had changed now, faded back to that unnatural color he’d grown used to seeing, and his voice had changed, too. There was something dark in it now, something horribly cold. “You just didn’t ever see it.” He crept closer to Bruce, his steps silent like a ghost. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible above everything that was happening around him, but Bruce still heard it. He heard it echoing in his head over and over again, and it wasn’t Jeremiah speaking anymore, not the Jeremiah he knew. Not the friend he’d known.

This was the voice of a stranger.

“And I always will be.”

_“Master Bruce!”_

Bruce’s eyes flew open and he sat up, choking on the sudden breath he gasped in. Alfred was staring at him, one hand on the door of the apartment they were staying in until the bridges could be reconstructed, and other holding a pistol. He’d obviously just reentered the room, and Bruce stared back at him dazedly.

“Didn’t know you were one for talking in your sleep, Master B. Must have been one hell of a dream, eh?”

Bruce’s mouth was too dry to answer; he only nodded. Alfred glanced at him appraisingly. “You sure you’re all right? You look a mite shaken up.”

Mustering the most genuine smile he could force, Bruce climbed out of bed, running a hand through his hair. “Just a dream.” he managed to say, avoiding further eye contact with the butler. Alfred knew what had happened the other day in the Dark Zone, of course, and he had nodded with satisfaction when Bruce told him. (“Serves that pasty-faced bastard right.” he’d muttered, and Bruce knew he harbored no kind memories of Jeremiah Valeska anymore.) Alfred wouldn’t understand the way Bruce felt about it…the guilt he couldn’t suppress any longer, despite every reassurance that none of it was his fault. 

The lingering, agonizing hope that things could change, and how it was now gone. 

_You never had a chance to stop him._

_To_ save _him._

Bruce frowned, standing up slowly and crossing the room to stare out the window. “No.” he whispered to himself, too quietly for Alfred to hear. _No, you had every chance in the world._

_You simply weren’t enough._

The GCPD had secured the area where the apartment building sat, and it was free of the gangs and criminals who were running rampant in the city. Dusk had fallen, leaving shadows looming over everything, shrouding anyone who dared to venture out on the abandoned streets after dark. Bruce kept his eyes fixed on the scene outside anyway, pointless as it was. There was nothing else to do…it had been two days since he and Selina had gotten back from the Dark Zone, and he hadn’t seen her since. Part of him wondered where she had gone, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it.

_Everything is falling apart._

_And I don’t know what to do about it._

\+ + + + + + +

“Selina Kyle.” Ecco hissed in the ear of the burly man who had been wandering around the alleys of the Narrows, searching for valuables left behind by the gangs. His face went ashen when he felt the cold steel of a blade press against his throat, and Ecco pressed harder. “Tell me where she is.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” he gritted out, staring straight ahead of him with bugged-out eyes. Ecco scowled.

“Someone must have seen her.”

“Ch-check the Sirens club.” the man stammered. “They know where to find anybody. She might even be there.” He _didn’t_ know who Selina Kyle was, but he was willing to say anything in exchange for walking away alive. 

Ecco paused for a moment. “The Sirens?”

“Run by Barbara Kean. They…they know everything that happens in Gotham. That’s your best bet for finding someone, I swear.”

“Okay.” She pulled the knife blade away, and the man staggered forward, clutching his neck as if he couldn’t believe he was still alive. “You had better not be lying.”

“I’m not, I’m not, really.” He held up his hands and Ecco gave him a dead-eyed look, then turned away, listening to his retreating footsteps that were too loud in the quiet of the night. 

_I’ll find you._ Her dark eyes were resolute as she pocketed her knife and started off. _I’ll find you, and you’ll regret the day you were born. I promise you._

And then what?

_What will you do after that?_

Ecco twisted her mouth to the side. This wasn’t the time for second-guessing…Selina Kyle had to die. She had done the _unthinkable,_ and there was nothing else to do but kill her. That was the way things worked, wasn’t it?

_But what happens then?_

_After she’s dead, what happens then?_

She scuffed her foot in a puddle of rainwater and gasoline that filled one of the potholes in the alley. “Nothing happens.” she said aloud, her voice echoing off the walls. _Nothing happens, because she’ll be gone, and that’s what needs to happen._

_She’ll be gone…_

And then it would just be Bruce Wayne…

_Oh._

Ecco paused, staring straight ahead at the end of the alley in front of her, thoughts churning. 

_If you take her away from Bruce Wayne, he’ll hate you even more._

_He’ll hate Jeremiah even more._

She bit down hard on her lip.

That couldn’t _ever_ happen.

_But what can you do? Selina Kyle can’t be allowed to go free…look what she’s done. She nearly ruined everything, ruined it for Jeremiah_ and _for Bruce. If she had just stopped to think about it…but she didn’t, and she ruined it, and you have to kill her._

But if Bruce Wayne would be angry…

_The plan may not work._ Ecco tensed. _And Jeremiah…_

_Jeremiah will hate_ you, _too._

“No.” she whispered, shaking her head and forcing herself to keep walking forward. “No, that’s not…” But it _was_ true, there was no denying that. And she couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk letting him down again. 

Couldn’t risk losing him altogether.

_You can’t kill her._

Anger bubbled up in her fiercely, and Ecco didn’t bother to try and ignore it. She was _furious_ at Selina Kyle for what she had done, and she was equally enraged that she couldn’t do anything about it. The girl deserved to die, but that would only make things worse.

_Because of Bruce Wayne._

Ecco scowled.

In that moment, she hated Bruce Wayne more than ever before.

She realized she was still holding the notebook, and her steps slowed as she looked down at it. The covers were blank, tied together over the pages in a knot, and Ecco turned it over in her hands. Jonathan’s words came back to her.

_“If you really want to be useful…”_

_If you can’t kill Selina…_

Maybe she could still find a way to be helpful. To prove Jeremiah still needed her. Even after everything.

Almost breathlessly, she opened the notebook, feeling like she was intruding on sacred territory. All his plans were in here—granted, he wrote them in code in case someone ever got their hands on it—but they were _here_ for her to see.

For a moment, Ecco felt closer to him that she ever had before.

She flipped through the pages, searching for something she could decipher. He was meticulously careful not to let a single piece of information be displayed openly, and Ecco wasn’t sure if she would find _anything_ she could use to help with his plan. 

_But you’ve got to. If you can’t kill Selina Kyle, then you can at least do this._

_If nothing else._

She paused, staring down at the page open in front of her. It was a simple drawing, what looked like a crescent of circles gathered together so they pressed against one another, but that wasn’t the only thing on the page. Held in place by a paper clip, there was a carefully cut out piece of a newspaper, a picture of the crime scene of the night the Waynes were murdered. Ecco’s eyes narrowed as she stared down at it.

She didn’t know the details of Jeremiah’s plan. All she knew was that they were digging a tunnel to the mainland, and that it had something to do with Bruce Wayne. But beyond that, he had been so vague that she truly wasn’t sure what he was going to do after that. It stung a bit to know he didn’t trust her with that information, but he had always been like that. At least, that was what she told herself.

But this piece of the puzzle seemed clear enough.

The photo didn’t show the bodies of the two murdered billionaires, but the scene itself was in high resolution, every detail on full display. The bloodstains on the ground, police tape fluttering in the background…

Ecco traced a finger carefully over it, her eyes darting back to the picture drawn below, then back up again. 

_What does…_

_What is he planning?_

What did the Wayne’s death have to do with Jeremiah’s plot involving Bruce? After all, the kid had watched his parents die in front of him. It had to be impossible to forget, and Ecco wasn’t sure why…

_He’s going to…_

She bit her lip again, realization dawning on her.

_Impossible to forget._

_Bruce will never forget…_

Everything was beginning to make sense now, and Ecco didn’t know what to think. She wasn’t sure what she _should_ think, so she didn’t. It was easier that way.

She cautiously touched the drawing of the circles clustered together into a curve, lips pursed as she stared down at it. She still didn’t understand completely, wasn’t sure she would _ever_ understand, but things were starting to become clear. 

_And that means…_

_That means he needs everything to be the same as…_

Ecco stared down at the newspaper picture, her eyes taking in every tiny detail of the crime scene that was laid out before her. 

Suddenly, she knew what she needed to do.

\+ + + + + + +

“That’s all I can do.” The haggard-faced Narrows doctor, who looked totally unconcerned at the blood that he’d managed to get all over his shirt, stuck out his hand. “So if you’ll pay up…”

“Pay up?” Jonathan scoffed. “In your dreams. You either get out of here right now with your head intact or,” he produced a pistol from the ragged folds of his sleeve, “not so intact. I hope you get my meaning, because it’s pretty damn clear.” The pistol hovered closer to the other’s face with each word.

The man stared down the barrel with half-lidded eyes, showing no concern whatsoever—Jonathan did admire the apathy that came with the personalities of many of the Narrows citizens—then shrugged. “Fine, if that’s the way you want it.”

“It is.” Jonathan said stonily, watching the man with a hawklike gaze as he shuffled to the door. “And if you tell anyone about this place, we’ll know. You’ll be dead before you’ve realized your heart’s stopped beating.”

The man sighed. “Sure, sure. Say, what exactly happened to him?” He jerked a thumb at the closed door behind them. “I mean, I know what happened, but jeez, you gotta have some pretty bad security to let someone get away with that, ya know?”

“Trust me, I know.” Jonathan ushered him away, thinking about how he would have a stern talk with Jeremiah about that exact topic when the opportunity arose. “But that’s none of your concern.”

The man ambled off, tossing an unimpressed glance at the two guards who stood at the entrance of the old factory, stationed on each side of the main doors, and disappeared outside. Jonathan waited until the door was safely closed behind him, then wheeled around and barged back into the room with a face bearing a resemblance to a thundercloud.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” Jervis offered from the corner of the room, engrossed in a tattered copy of some book he was reading. Jonathan ignored him, making a beeline for the makeshift mattress in the corner and standing with his hands on his hips as he stared down at the motionless figure that lay there, eyes shut tight and face completely still. If Jonathan didn’t know better, he would say he was looking at a corpse.

“You’ll be here to make sure this dumbass doesn’t die on us, right?” he asked over his shoulder. Jervis nodded without looking up from his book.

“Of course. I have nothing better to do. And there’s something quite peaceful about sitting in a room with a partly-sentient body. Achieves a sense of tranquility, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not really, but whatever floats your boat.” Jonathan shrugged before leaning over the figure, a shock of tangled turquoise hair fallen over the pallid face. “Listen up, bitch. If you die, I’m going to have some _very strong words_ with you, and you can count on that. Keep that in mind.” As was to be expected, there was no reply, and Jonathan sighed. Jervis noticed the slight slump of his shoulders but, having experience in working with Jonathan in the past, wisely said nothing. He took a serene sip of tea and returned to his reading.

Jonathan turned away, just as Ecco quietly stepped inside the room, avoiding his gaze and carrying a small box in her hands labeled “Property of GCPD Evidence Archives”.

“Hi.” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, holding tightly onto the box. Jonathan crossed his arms.

“Did you get around to killing whoever you went out to kill?”

Ecco shook her head, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. Her eyes were still dark and haunted, but there was a spark of inspiration now that hadn’t been there before. Hope, that she would make Jeremiah proud of her for helping him with his plan. “No.” She tapped the top of the box triumphantly. “But I got something better.”

\+ + + + + + +

“At least we’ve got a few more blocks secure.” Jim Gordon and Lucius Fox stood side-by-side, staring out of one of the police station’s partially-boarded up windows. The sound of Harvey Bullock snoring in his patched-up leather swivel chair behind them was the only other sound in the place. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“Have you gotten through with anyone on the mainland who’s willing to come help?” Lucius asked, adjusting his tie. Jim shook his head. 

“No. And in any case, I’ve got too much on my hands here at the moment to think about that. Keeping the city together is my first priority.”

The last of the evening light seeped through the smoke-filled air that clogged every inch of the city streets, clouding the view outside. In the distance, a lone police siren echoed, and Jim sighed.

“Oh, by the way.” Lucius spoke up after a long moment, having just remembered why he had come to speak with Gordon in the first place. “It looks like there was a break-in to the case archives office earlier tonight.”

Jim glanced at him sharply. “A break-in? Was anyone caught?”

The other man shrugged. “No one was there. The door had been closed behind them and everything.”

“How did you know someone was there, then?”

“The lights had been left on. The officers here know better than to do that, especially when we’re operating with limited electricity. And besides, why would any of them have gone to archives in the first place?”

“Was anything stolen?” Jim inquired, blinking his eyes rapidly to try and stay awake. It wasn’t an easy job, trying to oversee everything that was going on at the precinct _and_ attempting to salvage as much of the city from ruin as possible, and he honestly didn’t really care about a break-in to one of the offices if nothing had happened. But out of politeness, he listened to Lucius.

“That’s the odd thing. You would have thought someone was using the chance to sneak away some evidence of a crime they committed so when reunification comes around, they wouldn’t be found guilty. But it wasn’t that.” Lucius looked over at Jim, one eyebrow raised. The other stared back.

“Okay, so nothing was stolen?”

“No, something was. It just wasn’t what you would have expected.” Producing a sheet of paper that came from a file that listed the items stored away in the archives, he passed it to Gordon. One of the items was circled in red ink, and the police captain narrowed his eyes in confusion as he read the description.

Lucius nodded, although Jim hadn’t said anything, and took the paper back, folding and stowing it away in his jacket pocket.

“The pearls Martha Wayne was wearing the night she and Thomas were murdered.”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?” Barbara Kean stood over Selina, who was perched on the edge of one of the booth seats in the Siren’s club. The latter glanced up, setting down the glass she was holding.

“Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it? Call the cops?” 

“Come on, Selina.” She sat down next to the girl, studying her face scrutinizingly. “Something’s been bothering you. Anyone could see it.”

“No.” Selina looked away, her eyes darting back and forth as she stared into the flashing lights and dimmed figures that drifted back and forth through the club, almost as if she was searching for something. “Nothing is bothering me. I’m perfectly fine.”

She couldn’t tell Barbara about the way she’d felt for the past week…couldn’t even explain it to _herself._ The memory of what she had done had blurred itself in her mind until she couldn’t even piece together what had happened, aside from the outcome.

The outcome that everyone in Gotham City now knew about.

_You killed Jeremiah Valeska._

She should have been glad. Should have been _elated_ to live in the spotlight when word had gotten out on what she had done. 

Should have been a hero, or seen herself as one, at least.

_So why are you sitting alone at the Sirens, and why is everyone having a good time but you?_

Selina didn’t know the answer to that. No, that wasn’t exactly accurate. She knew, or at least a part of her did, but she refused to acknowledge it. Couldn’t, because it reminded her of her own weakness.

And the last time she had been reminded of that had been when she and Bruce had stood alone at the edge of the Dark Zone, out of breath, their hands unconsciously entangled in each other’s as they had raced through the seemingly endless maze of chaos and destruction, barely believing they would escape. When she had forgotten she was still holding a knife that dripped with blood that wasn’t theirs, and how Bruce’s gaze had darted to it immediately, his expression going blank. When she had stared into his eyes and realized all over again that she loved him. Realized he was disappointed in her. Realized it was too late to change what had happened.

And besides, she didn’t _want_ to change things.

But that didn’t erase the truth.

_You put everything between you two in jeopardy by what you did._

Barbara brushed a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “They all look up to you now.” She gestured vaguely to the people milling around them, absorbed in their own conversations but casting the occasional covert glance over to the girl sitting in the corner next to the club’s owner. Selina tried to avoid their gazes…she wasn’t sure what to make of it all. “You did what everyone in this godforsaken city has been wanting to do for three whole months.”

_Killed him._

Selina wasn’t sorry… _she wasn’t sorry,_ and she didn’t regret it. She had gotten her revenge. That was all that mattered, and it was _satisfying._ She had won, even after everything _he_ had done to her. 

_So why do you feel so miserable?_

“How about a game?” Barbara nodded at the glass-and-marble chess pieces that sat on the board in front of them. Selina hadn’t noticed she’d been staring at it until then.

“No.” she said sharply, maybe too sharply. _You aren’t sorry._ Trying to look nonchalant, she picked up a pawn, watching the lights around her reflect in the glass.

For a moment, she was back at the manor, sitting in front of the old wooden chess board, and she didn’t feel lonely anymore.

Because back then, she’d had a family.

_We can’t go back, so stop pretending._

_And no matter what Bruce thinks, you did what you had to._

_That’s all._

“Okay.” Barbara, unaware of any of the conflict that was playing through the girl’s mind at the moment, shrugged. She stood up, sweeping away the half-empty glass the other had been holding before. Selina didn’t protest. “We close in half an hour, by the way. Got to make time for some housecleaning.” She smiled, and Selina tried to smile back. 

_You should find Bruce,_ half of her mind was telling her, but the other half balked at the very idea. She remembered the disappointment that had shone in his eyes, the way he hadn’t spoken to her that night— _the night you murdered…no, killed_ —only turned away and disappeared into the darkness without even bothering to tell her she had been wrong.

_Even if you weren’t wrong._

The knife she kept strapped at her waist would burn in her hand whenever she held it now. As if it was branding her with the mark of a murderer _(but you had to do it, it was the only way to get your revenge, the only way to stop everything he was doing…everything he was going to do…)_ and she had been tempted to get rid of it for good. But she told herself she was stronger than that, she would get over it—if there really was anything to get over in the first place, and why should there be?—and went on.

She couldn’t meet with Bruce face-to-face. Not yet, anyway. If he had been angry, that would have been easier…she could have gotten angry, too, and she was _used_ to something like that, used to combating his beliefs with hers. But this was different now, and he wasn’t angry.

Only disappointed.

And that was worst of all.

_He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what it was like. It was too late, anyway. Too late for Jeremiah to come back. There wasn’t anything he could do to save him…why should he be upset with me for what I did?_

_I only did what Bruce didn’t have the courage for._

_Because he wouldn’t let himself realize the truth._

_I’m stronger than him._

She squared her shoulders, getting to her feet and weaving her way through the crowd. She needed fresh air; it was stifling in here, and she couldn’t hear herself think over the voices and music and everything else.

Outside, she snuck up to the rooftop, sitting down on the edge and letting her feet dangle off the side. She had always loved the feeling, loved looking down on the city below. Watching the lights in the houses twinkle and the sound of the traffic that hummed in the distance. 

Now there was none of that.

There was only darkness, and the occasional sound of a scuffle or rioting in the empty streets that would quickly be hushed when anyone came near.

Selina narrowed her eyes. Her hands gripped the hard concrete of the ledge.

_Gotham is dying._

She couldn’t make out even a single light below.

_It’s dying, and it’s all his fault._

_I’m glad…_

_I’m glad I killed him._

_He deserved it._

And if Bruce didn’t approve, Selina realized, she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all.

It didn’t _matter._

The thought was oddly freeing, and she smiled.

_It doesn’t matter what he thinks._

A stray cat wandered along the edge, testing its footing and then disappearing off into the darkness. Selina eyed it, admiring its poise and sureness, and got to her feet, following it. 

Gripping the cold metal handles of the fire escape, she leapt off the side of the building gracefully, her figure melting away into the shadows with all the silence and precision of a practiced burglar.

She didn’t think about the disappointment in Bruce’s eyes for the rest of the night.

\+ + + + + + + +

Bruce stood in the shadowy foyer of the Wayne Enterprises office. Dust and rubble streaked across the once-pristine marble flooring, and cobwebs clung to the corners of the high windows. The front doors swung loosely on their hinges, and a wandering breeze crept inside, stirring up the grime on the ground and carrying it away.

There was no one else in the building, and after the bridges had blown, the whole place had fallen into disarray. First, it had been used as a safe place for people to hide away from the chaos and violence outside, as were many of the now-abandoned business offices that were scattered throughout the city. But soon enough, it had been vacated and now stood alone amid the war zone that was now Gotham. Bruce knew it was dangerous to venture out of the apartment he and Alfred were staying at, and going unarmed into this building at night, where who knew what would be lurking about, but he went anyway. 

He felt like he _had_ to.

Carefully, he reached up to brush the dust off of the plaques that lined the wall, his touch so light that it barely ghosted across the cold stone. His chest tightened as he read the familiar words over and over, letting them sear themselves into his brain and welcoming the way it broke through the numbness that had filled him during the past week. 

_Jeremiah Valeska._

_Architectural Consultant for Wayne Plaza._

Bruce shivered, although it wasn’t cold.

_I wish there had been some way to find you again._

_Before it was too late._

At times, he wished Jeremiah had been more like Jerome. It was selfish, he knew…Jeremiah had spent his entire life running from that very inevitability. But at least then Bruce would have been able to blame someone…he would have been able to pin fault on Jerome for driving his brother insane, for tormenting him to such an extent that Jeremiah had no choice but to give in to his crazed demands. To become the next version of Jerome. Because that was simple, and that would have made him easy to defeat.

But Bruce knew that couldn’t be further from the truth.

He’d told Jeremiah multiple times that he was becoming a carbon copy of his twin, but it was a lie. It was a ploy to force Jeremiah to come back, to resume his previous self and realize what he had done. But it was still a lie. That part didn’t change.

Jeremiah had been nothing like Jerome.

Deep down, they were never quite the same.

Jerome hadn’t _cared._ He hadn’t cared about what he did, as long as he was entertained. And that could be lethal enough…Gotham had cowered in fear from him during his murderous rampages in an effort to amuse himself, but it had also been easy enough to take him down. There was no driving force behind his actions other than the insatiable desire to have a good (albeit murderous) time. That, and dragging his brother along with him, down into the madness.

But Jeremiah had honed in on Gotham like a hawk closing in on its prey, and he had been intent on taking it down.

So intent, that he had lost himself in the process.

And that made him more dangerous than anyone had ever expected.

Bruce’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shouting and distant gunfire outside, and he jerked his hand away from the plaque as if it had burned him. 

The realization that had been clouding his mind returned in full force.

_It doesn’t matter, none of this matters, because he’s dead now._

_They both are._

His next realization was that it was completely pointless, standing here in the dark. Staring at the name of someone who used to be his friend as if that would magically make him come back. And Bruce didn’t _want_ him to come back. Not if he was the same as he had been when all this—he glanced wordlessly around at the destruction and misery that surrounded him—had happened.

_You have to walk away. There’s no point in staying. No point in wishing for things that will never be real._

Because that was the truth. None of it would ever be real. Not the things he wanted. 

_So go. Leave it all behind._

He needed to turn back to helping the city. Needed to throw himself wholly into saving the people before Gotham collapsed in on itself for good. Needed that, because it was something to _do_ (it wasn’t a distraction, he told himself firmly. It _was not_ a distraction).

Bruce turned away, his throat and eyes dry. Everything felt too heavy, and he wished he hadn’t come here. What good had it done? What questions had been answered? 

_Leave it behind._

_He’s dead._

Slowly, he stepped outside, feeling the breeze ruffle his hair and watching the faint outlines of stars poke through the smoke-filled clouds above. Huddled figures scurried by him, paying no attention to the young billionaire standing on the threshold of what had used to be the cornerstone of Gotham…Wayne Enterprises, looming up on the horizon, majestic and reassuring.

But now, there was nothing majestic about any of it.

Everything was falling apart.

He started down the steps slowly, noticing how some had cracked and shattered beneath his feet. Sirens wailed in the distance and there was a murmuring of voices in some nearby alleyway. Bruce stared blankly ahead, not wanting to witness the wreckage that used to be his city, but it was impossible _not_ to.

It was everywhere.

And someone had to help restore it to what it used to be.

_That’s your job now._

_Nothing else, and nothing more._

_You can’t save him anymore, so you might as well try to save Gotham._

He wished that could have made him feel better. Wished it could have suppressed the heavy emptiness inside him that crawled like a virus all through him and his thoughts. 

Wished he could forget.

Bruce lifted his chin, willing himself to continue down the stairs outside Wayne Enterprises. Into the wasteland beyond that teemed with crime and anarchy and death.

_Gotham needs you._

_You have to let this go._

Even if he knew he never would.

\+ + + + + + 

The maddeningly rhythmic sound of shovels scraping away at the packed, rock-filled dirt at the end of the tunnel was the only thing to breath the silence of the long, dark underground corridor. That, and the ragged breathing of the exhausted workers, who were worn to the bone but didn't dare to stop and rest. Not when they were being observed by a pair of dangerous, scrutinizing brown eyes that took in their every move and would certainly notice if they paused for even a second longer in their task.

Ecco stood motionless in the middle of the tunnel, watching the shadowy figures work. It had been six days—six agonizingly long days—and this job was coming to an end. If the map and tunnel structure design she held in her hand were both correct, they were right underneath their destination. All that remained was a few more hours of work, and they should reach the end. 

She supposed she should be happy about that.

But the thought couldn’t force even the ghost of a smile to her pale face as she stared out in front of her, watching silently.

_He should be here to see this._

_What if…_

_What if he doesn’t…_

No. She shook her head, her hand tightening around the papers she held. They crinkled loudly in the quiet, and one of the workers glanced nervously over his shoulder to see where the sound had come from. Ecco stared at him and he turned away quickly.

_No._

_It’s going to be all right. It’s going to work out._

_He’s…_

_He’ll be all right._

Her breath seemed to shudder as it filled her lungs, and the air felt stifling. She wanted to run, wanted to get out of here, but she couldn’t leave. This was her job. She couldn’t fail at this.

_Why is he doing this?_

_What does he want?_

She had begun to figure out his plan. It helped that she had known him so closely over the years, because to anyone else, the notebook she had learned the information from would have been indecipherable. And even after learning the details of what he wanted to do (after hours of puzzling over each individual page until her eyes were dry and she wanted to give up) the motive wasn’t quite clear. 

_Why does he put himself—put everyone—through all this? What does he think is going to happen? What is it he really wants?_

Sometimes Ecco was tempted to light the notebook on fire and watch it burn to ashes. Then she would go to the tunnel workers and have them fill the whole place up again. Remove every trace of this plan from the earth and start over again. With _him_. 

Show him that he didn’t have to give up everything to get what he wanted.

_I’ve been right here the whole time._

_For you._

_If you would just see it._

She knew he never would.

She had become a means to an end. A pawn in the game he was playing, willingly cast aside when he didn’t need her, dragged back when he did. Not because he cared, but because she was _useful._

Nothing more.

_Why won’t you let me be more?_

What was she lacking? How had she failed? She had devoted everything to him, given up everything…she had followed him unquestioningly, even as she saw his mind, his sanity, slipping away.

Because she couldn’t desert him. Even if he lost himself in the process. Even if she lost him.

And _especially_ not now.

_What does he want?_

There was something she was missing, but Ecco couldn’t figure out what. 

One of the worker’s shovels made a loud clanking sound as it struck something through the dirt. Ecco looked up sharply, watching as a wall of stone blocks were slowly unearthed, her heart hammering in her chest.

_We’ve made it._

And in that same moment, her heart sank.

_I wish you were here to see it._

Her anger toward Selina Kyle surged up again, stronger than ever. She wished she could have killed the girl and gotten it over with…it was nothing less than what she deserved. She had ruined so much, put a hold on everything, and death was too kind of a punishment for that. But Ecco had held back, only because she knew what further damage it could cause to the plan, and she couldn’t risk that.

Not when everything they were doing was the only thing that seemed to motivate her former employer at all.

She hoped that would be enough to bring him back.

_It’s been a week. A week. You have to wake up. I know you’re alive in there, no matter what that bitch tried to do to you. You wouldn’t let some little no-name kill you, right? You’re stronger than that._ Her breath trembled, and Ecco glared at one of the workers who looked over at her, pausing for a millisecond in his work. 

_You have to come back to m…to everyone. This is your plan, remember? You were so excited about it, you can’t let it go to waste._

Her shoulders slumped. As if useless thinking would do anything. But sometimes she couldn’t help it. Not when there was nothing else to do.

_You’ll come back. I know you will. I believe in you…I’ve always believed in you. And I always will._

It wasn’t as if she had any other option.

A worker approached her slowly, cautiously, his eyes nervous as she threw a questioning glance at him. “What?”

He gripped the shovel he was holding tightly, and she saw his knuckles turn white. “Uh…we just wanted to know…do you want us to keep going? I mean, it…it looks like…” He gestured back toward the stone wall, where the other workers were gathered in a cluster, watching Ecco carefully.

She narrowed her eyes at them all. “Don’t stop working until you make a complete breakthrough. Then secure the roofing of the final section of the tunnel. Then add the lanterns to keep it light enough inside. And _then_ you can ask me that question.”

He nodded, turning away. The steady sound of the shovels resumed, and Ecco sighed, putting down the papers she held and digging through her pockets until her fingers brushed against what she was looking for. Carefully, she held up the strand of white pearls she had been carrying with her for the past week, admiring the way they softly reflected the lantern light in the tunnel. They were cool and smooth against her hand, and she smiled.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” A voice spoke quietly from behind her.

Ecco stiffened, her breath dying in her lungs for a moment as shock rushed through her. Everything she tried to think was blank, like a malfunctioning machine. Her heart was beating much too loud.

_You…_

She turned around.

Jeremiah nodded to the pearls she still clutched in her hand. “It’s important to retain authenticity.” he continued, and a sob caught in Ecco’s throat as she started toward him, then stopped. Her hand hovered in the air, reaching toward him, but not daring to actually make a move.

“You…you’re…” Her words choked off into a nervous laugh, her eyes darting across his face, trying to reassure herself that he was real, he was here, he was back…

“I don’t plan on dying for a little while yet.” he said calmly. She could see now that his face was even more pale than its usual abnormal colorlessness, and sweat stood out on his forehead from the exertion of merely standing on his own. He supported himself by leaning one hand against the wall of the tunnel, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, but he was undoubtedly _alive,_ and that was more than Ecco had ever dared hope for during this past week.

She still wanted to kill Selina Kyle, but now there wasn’t as much vengeful urgency behind the desire.

Because he was _back._

“I’m glad.” was all she could manage, wanting nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and never let go again. Instead, she looked him over appraisingly, blinking back the traitorous tears that stood in her eyes. “But…but how…”

He took her hand, which Ecco realized had still been held out toward him, and she shivered, a smile breaking across her face. Jeremiah smiled back, and she wanted him to keep holding her hand forever. She decided to ignore the darkness smoldering in his eyes like barely lit embers. The flutter of insanity that twitched at the corners of his smile. 

She could at least pretend he loved her for a moment.

“There’s too much to do.” he responded, his voice low and steady as he watched the workers continue chipping away at the stone wall. “Too much on the line. You didn’t think I would allow anyone to kill me before I get what I want?”

Ecco’s smile faltered. For a moment, she wanted to pull her hand away from his, but he didn’t let go. She felt like she was in the presence of some dangerous creature, coiled to strike at its prey, and she could only watch as they both became locked in a neverending struggle for power. 

Then she blinked and the thought was gone.

“You shouldn’t be down here.” Her practical side was taking over, and she couldn’t ignore the way he very clearly was struggling to stay on his feet, the exhaustion that shone in his eyes. “I’ve got everything under control here, okay? You don’t have to worry about it.”

Jeremiah was silent for a moment, still staring at the workers as if he hadn’t heard her, and Ecco laid a hand carefully on his shoulder.

“I promise. Everything is going smoothly. I’ve overseen it all.” She wasn’t looking for praise, exactly, but it _would_ be nice if he could acknowledge how much she had done for him. 

_No, that’s selfish. You should be thinking about him, not yourself._

“They’ve almost broken through.” He was still ignoring her.

“Yes.” She followed his gaze to the workers. “But it’ll still take time. And you need to rest.”

He seemed to falter, as if just then realizing worn out he was from the exertion. “Okay.” But he didn’t turn away from the stone wall, behind which sat the final step in the process of his plan. Triumph shone in his eyes as he watched the stones being slowly removed piece by piece, and Ecco had to guide him back down the tunnel to make him finally turn away from it.

Their steps were nearly silent as they retreated back into the winding twists and turns of the passage, and Ecco listened to her companion trying to catch his breath. She slowed down, hooking her arm in his. 

“Are you okay?”

He glanced disparagingly at her. “I’m _fine.”_

“You haven’t asked…” She paused, wondering if it was a bad idea to bring up the topic. “You haven’t asked about Selina Kyle.”

Jeremiah didn’t look at her. “And?”

Ecco shrugged, trying to find the right words. “I mean, she…” 

_Tried to kill you._

_Almost succeeded._

He scoffed. “I don’t care where she is. She’s not important to any of this.”

“Don’t you realize what she did to you? You’re…I mean, you could have _died.”_

“It doesn’t matter. None of it does. The only thing that matters—”

“Is that the plan goes right.” Ecco finished automatically, chancing a look up at him. Jeremiah nodding, taking the strand of pearls she held in her other hand and holding them up to examine them in the light of the lanterns that lined the tunnel walls at intervals of fifty feet.

“Yes.” He studied the pearls closely, watching them as if they would come to life, memorizing every tiny detail he could see. For a moment, Ecco thought he wouldn’t say anything further, and when he did speak, his voice was almost too low to hear. She leaned closer to catch the words.

“That’s all that’s ever mattered.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

Bruce glanced up at a nearby rooftop when he heard a faint rustle break the stillness of the night. He shouldn’t be out at this time anyway…it was dark and there were probably countless things lurking in the shadows that he would rather not run into. He’d never hear the end of it if Alfred found out he was here, or anywhere that wasn’t the apartment, really, but Alfred had been down at the precinct the entire day, helping the GCPD as tension grew between them and the people communicating with them from the mainland.

And besides, he had grown considerably more lenient with Bruce in the past few years. That, or he realized his young charge was finally beginning to be capable of protecting himself when he needed to.

In any case, Bruce was alone as he walked the darkened streets of Gotham. Alone with his thoughts.

He glanced up when he heard the rustle again, his eyes narrowing as he tried to pinpoint the source. The noise was followed by a shadow that barely flickered into his line of vision, and Bruce knew there was something following him on that rooftop. He wondered for how long he’d been watched…he wasn’t really doing anything that would make for good viewership. Unless his nameless follower enjoyed watching people walk silently down a street for the better part of an hour.

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk when the noise came a third time, and Bruce could clearly hear footsteps now. He craned his neck to stare up at the shape watching him from the rooftop, and realized what was happening. 

The shadow _wanted_ him to know it was there.

Bruce’s lips tightened. 

“You can come down now.” he said, not bothering to raise his voice above its normal tone. He stared straight ahead as the shadow paused, then slid down the fire escape noiselessly, landing on its feet beside him. Bruce glanced over.

“Selina.”

“Bruce.”

They were both silent for a long moment, watching one another. Silently trying to figure out what the other was thinking. Bruce was the first to break the silence.

“I didn’t expect to see you here."

He missed the way her shoulders tensed. “Where did you expect me to be, then?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Out celebrating your victory, I guess.” 

Selina looked over at him carefully, but there was no condemnation in his tone. “I’m not one for victory parties, despite what you’ve been hearing.”

“Who says I heard anything?” He began walking again, and she followed him, almost warily. Testing the waters of their relationship as best she could. He was doing the same. “It was just an assumption.”

“Oh.” Selina kicked a piece of debris that sat in their path, watching it skitter off into the deserted road. “Well, I wasn’t.”

“I was wondering when I would see you again.” Bruce continued, following her gaze. Selina looked at him sharply.

“You were? Why?”

“I didn’t know where you had gone.”  
“You’re not responsible for me, Bruce.” Her hand rested on the knife at her side, and Bruce felt his throat close at the sight. The searing memory of that night—he couldn’t bring himself to even put together the words describing what had happened—washed over him in a scalding wave. He had known he had lost a part of her that night, the part that cared what he thought of her actions, the part that used him as a moral compass to guide what she did. She had pushed that away now, expunged any traces of Bruce holding sway over her, and they both knew it. 

For a moment, they nearly felt like strangers to one another.

“No one is responsible for me.” Selina continued, staring stoically ahead of her. Bruce watched her profile and the shadows that fluttered over it. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, but it was still grasping the handle of the knife, and he could almost imagine the blood seeping though her fingers. Imagine the cold, remorseless gaze in her eyes as they had escaped the Dark Zone that night. 

Somewhere in the back of his mine, the memory of a gunshot echoed.

Remembered what had happened on a night even further back in time.

When he’d thought he had truly lost her for good.

_She wasn’t going to stop. Not until she got her revenge. There was no way to stop her. One of them would kill the other, it was only a matter of time._

He guessed that should have made him feel less responsible.

Less guilty.

_God, why can’t I put this behind me?_

“I know.” he said quietly, and Selina did look at him then. Her eyes searched his face almost hopefully. Wondering if he truly understood. Bruce knew his next words would change all that, but he spoke anyway. He had to. “But I still feel it.”

“Well, don’t.” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. “You can’t stop me from doing what I want, Bruce. You aren’t _me._ You’ve always…” she shook her head, searching for the right words. “Everyone has always tried to control me. They tried to make me into what _they_ wanted me to be. Everyone. It’s…it’s not just you. But you’re part of it. And I’m tired of that happening all the time.”

He did take her hand then, their fingers interlocking around the knife handle as she kept a firm grasp on it. Bruce felt the cold metal against his palm and suppressed a shiver. He didn't want to think about that knife right now. There were a lot of things he didn’t want to think about. “I just want to keep you s—”

“I don’t need you to protect me.” she broke in before he could finish. “I’ve never needed that, Bruce.”

“Selina, it’s more than that.” he tried to explain. He could feel her pulling away from him, trying to put a distance between them. “It’s not just about protecting you. It’s about making sure you don’t do something you regret.”

“And that’s your job?” she retorted, eyes flashing with a sudden burst of anger. Bruce could see the restlessness teeming in her expression. “I’ve had plenty of regrets, and I’ll have plenty more. There’s nothing you can do to stop that. No one can. Don’t think you’re special just because you’re my friend.”

Bruce stopped, staring at her. Selina stared back, her eyes challenging him. Daring him to argue with her. He felt his heart skip a beat. “I thought we were more than friends.” His words were quiet, uncertain. 

_Has that changed, too?_

_Has everything between us been destroyed?_

He didn’t know what he felt for her, and he couldn’t tell if she did, either.

So much had changed.

Selina’s expression softened, something yearning in her eyes replacing the former defensiveness. She reached up with her free hand, her fingers barely touching the side of her companion’s face. Her gaze never left his. “More than friends still doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do.”

“Selina—”

“Or who to be.” She shook her head, pulling her hand away. Bruce caught it in his own.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Then what did you mean?” When he was silent, she gave him a wry smile. It was as if there had been an invisible string between them, connecting them both, and now it was broken. He didn't know what had severed it, but he knew it would be impossible to restore. “Bruce, I know what you want. I know what you think I should become. But it won’t work.”

_I can’t follow you down that path. I can’t be the good guy with you._

She remembered the knife she carried with her. 

_I’ve done too much to change things now._

“You can’t stop me from doing what _I_ want to do. You never have.”

“I’ve only ever wanted to protect you.”

“Well, don’t.” She stepped back, further into the shadows. Bruce didn’t move. “I don't want that. And I’m not sure you do, either.”

“What do you mean?” His brow creased in confusion. Selina smirked at him, but the humor didn’t reach her eyes.

“If I followed you wherever you wanted me to go,” she reached up for the bottom rung of the fire escape and pulled herself up in one fluid motion, “you wouldn’t have anyone to run after.”

Bruce stared up at her as she disappeared over the edge of the rooftop moments later. Within seconds, there was no sign Selina had been there in the first place.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking, alone into the darkness.

\+ + + + + + + + +

“They’ve broken through.” A tremor of excitement worked its way through Ecco’s voice as she burst through the door, interrupting the conversation between Jeremiah and a man she hadn’t seen before. He was wearing a white lab coat and glasses, and his hands were steepled as he spoke, like a professor giving a lecture in a college class. She was so intent in relaying her message that she almost didn’t notice the two figures tied up in the corner of the room, bodies limp and burlap sacks over their heads. She tossed a glance at them, confused. “Who…”

“Broken through?” Jeremiah turned to face her, holding up a hand to forestall what the man was saying. He didn’t seem to have heard the beginning of Ecco’s question on the identity of the bound strangers, or didn’t care. “When?”

“Just now.” 

“Good.” It was only one word, but she could see the hungry gleam in his eyes when he spoke. Almost desperate in its intensity. For a moment, she could see beyond the mask of composure he never neglected to don around her, a glimpse of his true self that only broke through when he truly lost control. 

Somehow, Ecco thought that part of him could be more dangerous, more powerful than the complete lack of emotion he seemed to favor. When she was near, at least. 

“Do you…would you like to see it?” she asked hesitantly, glancing over him appraisingly. It had only been a few days after he’d woken up, after all, and really, Ecco knew he should have been resting, not on his feet talking to a stranger. Besides, it was late at night, and although she knew from experience that her former employer had never been one for much sleep, he _was_ recovering from a nearly fatal attempt on his life.

Apparently, however, when he put his mind to a task, he was nearly indestructible.

_But still human,_ she reminded herself.

Of course, she knew Jeremiah _would_ want to see the completed project. And there would be no dissuading him otherwise…besides, she had been the one to offer.

“Yes, Ecco.” He glanced disparagingly at her, his voice poisonous with contempt. Ecco nearly shrank away from him, wondering where she had gone wrong. Or had she? It was impossible to tell with him…there was no way to determine what he was thinking. As unpredictable as Jerome had been, Jeremiah was doubly so, because at least Jerome had been consistent in his madness. It was only his actions that were difficult to be guessed. With Jeremiah, every moment was a gamble…no matter what his mood had been moments before, it could switch during any second without the slightest bit of warning. Ecco knew Jeremiah staunchly refused to acknowledge any trace of insanity he may have possessed, and while she didn’t dare to argue the point with him—didn’t _want_ to, in any case—it was impossible to agree with his delusions. 

She knew he was insane now.

But at least, for the most part, she didn’t mind.

“I assume the workers have left?” Jeremiah now completely ignored the man he had been speaking with, who retreated into the background to stand alongside the two unconscious figures tied up in the corner. Ecco caught the hidden meaning behind his words. He didn’t want anyone to witness him in anything less than an invulnerable state. Being a recipient of no fewer than five stab wounds within the past several weeks didn’t exactly put him in that position, no matter how much he tried to hide the fact, and Ecco nodded understandingly.

No one could know it was possible to take him down.

“Everyone’s gone. Sworn to say nothing about the project, and we have eyes on all of them. If they speak even a single word…” She lifted a finger to her throat, imitating a slitting motion. Jeremiah gave her a small smile.

“I knew I could depend on you.”

She couldn’t help a matching smile that spread across her face at that as he followed her down the hall.

_You can._

_You can always depend on me._

\+ + + + + + + + +

“What exactly do you want me to do?” Jim Gordon stood in front of the young officer, who shifted back and forth on his feet a little sheepishly, his gaze faltering.

“I just…doesn’t that seem a little suspicious to you?”

“Maybe I should remind you we are living in a literal war zone.” the police captain replied, exasperation evident on his face. “And you’re concerned about someone snooping around the old chemical plant?”

The officer shrugged, fiddling with his badge. “From what I heard, they’ve been starting up the machines and gathering workers. I—”

“Besides, it’s in the Dark Zone.” Gordon continued, glancing impatiently over his shoulder. “We’ve barely managed to get out of there alive the few times we’ve actually made it in. I can’t risk men to investigate a lead without any substance to a claim.”

“But sir, it’s Ace, after all. What if they’re making something dangerous? The Dark Zone was run by Jeremiah Valeska, you know.”

“Who happens to be dead now, to my knowledge.” Jim tried to give the young man a reassuring smile. “I think we have more to worry about than some folks playing chemist at the plant."

“Okay.” The officer didn’t look convinced, and Jim sighed.

“Tell you what. I’ll see what I can do and maybe check it out later.” Of course, “later” constituted sometime in the span of the next several days, but to Jim’s credit, he was a busy man. “I doubt it’s anything, but,” he shrugged, “who can tell in this city anymore?”

“You’re right about that, Captain Gordon.” the officer murmured, following the other man as they strode through the precinct. Jim tilted his head to the side, popping the joints in his neck.

“Give me some time and then I’ll head over to Ace and put your mind at rest. Where did you hear that information that they’re starting up again, anyway?”

“Some guy who claimed to have escaped from the Dark Zone.” the other shrugged. “He didn’t say anything else, and I couldn’t get him to come in for questioning. That was all I could get out of him.”

“Well,” Jim skirted around a huddle of police officers who were poring over a set of maps of the city, “I will certainly keep it in mind.”

\+ + + + + + + + + +

Ecco glanced up almost nervously at Jeremiah, standing alongside him in the darkened hallway of Wayne Manor. It was silent enough to hear a pin drop, and there was something about the look in his eyes that made her uneasy. 

She was fairly certain he didn’t even remember she was there.

“It’s been a long time.” He finally spoke, broke the tension and stifling quiet between them, and Ecco’s gaze snapped to his face, instantly alert. Jeremiah didn’t look at her. “Although it hasn’t really, I suppose.”

“Do you—” Ecco began, resisting the urge to reach out and take his hand in her own. “Would you like me to—”

“It’s just that so much has happened.” He truly didn’t seem to know she was there, or didn’t care. Ecco knew it was probably the latter, although she wished for the former. It stung a bit less that way. Jeremiah reached up to brush a hand across the portrait on the wall in front of them, his strangely luminous eyes, snake-like in the dark, fastened on the motionless faces. 

Ecco turned to leave, knowing he most likely didn’t want her here, anyway. He had barely spoken a word to her on the way down the tunnel, and although she had tried to chalk that up to fatigue that came with overexertion, she knew it was more than that. He was fully focused now, ready to strike as soon as the final pieces of his plan fell into place—she still hadn’t been able to decipher exactly _what_ it all came down to, but she knew everything was being finalized more and more each day—and that was all he had time for. All he cared about. 

It was consuming him.

And she knew he was more than willing to cast her aside if it meant he could get what he wanted.

She knew it, but that didn’t make anything better. 

“Ecco.” His voice stopped her as she stood in the middle of the hall, and she hated the way her heart gave a fluttering leap at the sound of her name. Hated how her own thoughts betrayed her, let her down, because they would never come true. 

She just couldn’t help it.

“Would you be so kind as to help with some of the finishing touches of…all this?” He glanced around. She nodded eagerly.

“Anything you say.”

“The butler. Alfred Pennyworth.” Jeremiah turned away from her again. The name seemed to come so easily to him, cold and removed as it sounded; had there really been a time when he _cared_ about anyone, about any of these people? How pathetic he had been back then…that sort of attachment could only yield trouble for everyone involved. It was easy to manipulate anyone who held affection for someone else, to exploit that connection…

Jeremiah smiled almost bitterly to himself, the ghost of long-ago memories flitting through his mind. _You know that better than anyone._

Fortunately, he was _much_ more capable now. 

And there was no one left to stop him.

“Pennyworth?” Ecco repeated, and Jeremiah nodded impatiently.

“I need him here. I put Tetch in charge of finding him, but he might as well take you along.”

She hesitated halfway down the hall, and turned back. The question that had been burning in the back of her mind couldn’t go unanswered any longer…he always hid so much from her, kept everything so secretive, but her curiosity would not be satisfied until she knew. “Those…those people. The ones back in the factory.” That run-down place where the tunnel entrance began felt so far away now, as she stood in the lavish halls of the city’s most prominent home. She didn’t miss the way Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed at her when she spoke. “Who are they?”

He tilted his head, considering his response. For a moment, Ecco thought maybe he wouldn’t answer her. 

“No one.” he finally said, turning his gaze slowly back to the portrait on the wall. A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Not yet.”

Ecco knew it would be useless to ask what he meant, although she was now more confused than ever. Without another word, she turned away and disappeared into the darkness around the corner of the hall, into the study of Wayne Manor, back to the entrance of tunnel. Jeremiah watched her go.

_It’ll all come together soon._

_Even after everything, there was no way to stop this._

_Selina couldn’t, the GCPD couldn’t, no one._

_And Bruce…_

_Bruce hasn’t even tried to stop it._

Jeremiah stared at the portrait.

_Maybe he doesn’t want to stop it._

_Maybe he understands this is how it has to be._

_It’s always been inevitable._

His hands tightened into fists and he tried to look away from the picture in front of him. He used to _like_ that picture, used to stare at it and imagine what it would have been like to have a family like that, somewhere he _belonged._ But there had been no resentment, only a sense of wonder at the glimpse of a world he had never known. 

Now he hated it.

It wasn’t _right._

_Not complete,_ he thought, and now that Ecco wasn’t here, now that he didn’t have to force an attitude of absolute control, the anger shone in his eyes without restraint. Anger, and desperation. He wanted to tear down the picture and rip it to pieces, wanted to destroy it because it didn’t fit, it didn’t match with what _he_ wanted. 

And what _Bruce_ needed.

_No._ Jeremiah gaze was venomous with envy now. There was no point in lying to himself. He’d done _that_ often enough. Who _hadn’t_ he lied to? 

_It’s what we both need._

There was a box of matches he kept in his pocket and, his eyes never leaving the picture, the painfully familiar faces that watched him impassively, Jeremiah took one out, striking it against the side of the box. 

_It’s not right, it’s not complete, it’s_ wrong _and it can’t stay here…_

_There can’t be a single trace of what used to exist._

_If you’re going to rewrite the past, it has to be authentic._

A tiny flame flickered suddenly in the darkness of the hallway, and he held it alongside the portrait until it caught fire, rushing hungrily across the features of the Waynes. Jeremiah watched it burn, emotions suddenly numb.

_Because it’s not just a rewrite._

The end of the match burned steadily away until the flames scorched his fingertips, and Jeremiah crushed the remains in the palm of his hand, unflinching.

_This is reality now._

The wooden frame of the portrait had caught on fire, and wisps of smoke clouded the air of the manor. Jeremiah continued to stare staunchly ahead, waiting until the object of his destruction had been distorted beyond repair. 

_This is the only reality there can be._

_And you and I…_

A laugh caught in his throat and he tossed the broken remains of the match to the ground, grinding it into the carpet with the heel of his shoe as he stepped back, admiring his work. The picture was unrecognizable now, a charred, blackened thing that was quickly falling to ashes. The frame was a splintered skeleton that held nothing, only hung forlornly on the wall. 

_You and I will live in it._

_Forever._


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these chapters have been, comparatively, kind of short, but they'll get longer once the plot starts picking up again! Hope y'all like this chapter anyway :)

**Chapter Fifteen**

_Does he forgive you?_

Selina paced back and forth on the edge of the rooftop, unfazed by how far above the ground she stood. It didn’t matter to her…she had always felt so free, so untethered high up above the city, and felt it doubly so now, being able to leave the chaos and destruction behind as she tried to clear her head. Instinctively, her hand felt for the knife she always carried, and part of her wanted to throw it over the edge of the roof, to never see it again.

But she didn’t.

_Does he?_

She didn’t know the answer to that. Sometimes she thought maybe Bruce wouldn’t hold a grudge against her for what she had done…he didn’t understand a lot of things about her, but at least he acknowledged her desire—no, _need_ —for revenge. And he knew he couldn’t have stopped her in any case. When she thought of that, she started to believe that maybe he would be able to look past what she had done.

_Become a murderer._

She had killed before, after all. It wasn’t something she liked to admit, but more than once, she had at least participated in the deaths of others, and that had never affected her for 

long. She brushed it off as a necessity of life, especially the way she lived, sometimes even a method of self-preservation. It was survival of the fittest in Gotham, and sometimes, Selina told herself, it was the only way to stay alive. 

It wasn’t _right,_ and she didn’t like it, but she always got ever it eventually.

Nothing had ever weighed on her conscience like this before.

Even now, even as she vowed to put any trace of guilt…guilt wasn’t the right word, more like _uncertainty_ regarding what she had done…behind her, the doubt still lingered. This wasn’t about Jeremiah any longer, it was about who _she_ had become. Who she would become because of all this. 

Selina knew she could never go back.

And the only thing that stopped her from accepting that was Bruce.

It was easy, deceptively easy, to say to his face that she didn’t care what he thought. To say he didn’t affect her life, her decisions, anything. To tell him he couldn’t have a say in what she did…she felt strong then, more assured of herself. 

But when she was alone with her thoughts, the doubt came crashing back in full force.

_Will he ever forgive you?_

_Now that he knows you can be a killer…_

_What if this really does push him away for good?_

Selina tried to tell herself that she didn’t need him. She had always gotten along fine on her own, what difference did it make now if she had to do the same again? It shouldn’t make a difference, not at all. She was adaptable, after all, she should be able to look change in the face and accept it. 

Accept that Bruce might leave her behind.

_“I thought we were more than friends.”_

But he didn’t _want_ to leave.

And that was the other half of the problem.

If he left, Selina knew she would be desolate. Bruce could never know that, of course, but it was the truth. On the other hand, it would free her, allow her to do whatever she wanted without the lingering uncertainty of what Bruce would think of her actions, without the fear that it would be enough to push him away for good. The fear that she was destroying their already turbulent relationship with her own actions.

_You can’t let that stop you,_ she told herself firmly, placing one foot in front of the other, heel to toe, on the edge of the roof. A brisk wind blew by, free of the usual smoke and grime that hung in the air like a neverending cloud, and she breathed it in, closing her eyes for a moment. _You can’t let_ him _stop you._

_It’s the only way to test and see if he really wants to stay._

_If he leaves because of what you do, then you’ll know it was never going to work out between you two. He will pull you down, otherwise._

_He will pull you down, or stay on your level._

Selina quite honestly didn’t know which Bruce would choose.

She _wanted_ him to see things her way, but knew he never would be able to. Not the same way as her, at least. He just didn’t understand things like that, he was so _strict_ about what he believed. There was no such thing as compromise in his mind. 

_It’s one or the other._

_You don’t have a choice in the matter._

_That’s up to Bruce._

Selina lifted her head, staring up at the sky. She wanted to let go of all the weight that had been holding her down, all the worry that had consumed her, the fear that Bruce would leave her behind because of what she had done. Who she had become. 

_Murderer._

_You’re crossed a line._

_You’re a criminal now, no matter what the circumstances._

_And it’s Bruce’s choice to decide what he wants to do with that knowledge._

Selina sighed, feeling something akin to relief at the thought. She wasn’t entirely convinced that everything would be all right…not even close. The future looked very muddled at the moment, every option indistinguishable, and it was up to Bruce to choose what would happen. She had made her decisions, and that was all she could do.

_You don’t need him._

She stared down at the city below, wondering where Bruce was now.

_Oh, but you do._

_You can’t admit it, not even to yourself._

_But you’ve always needed him._

Selina didn’t like the thought, but it was impossible to deny. No matter how much she wanted to. The truth was staring her in the face, evident in the conflict that twisted at her heart. And she wished it wasn’t true, because things would be easier then, they would be _so_ much easier, but she couldn’t help it.

_Don’t let yourself become sentimental. And don’t become attached. It’s too dangerous, too easy to get your heart broken that way._

_You have to go your own way, and if he wants to follow, then that’s up to him._

_You have to._

“I have to.” she breathed aloud, the wind catching the corners of her jacket as she wrapped her arms around her chest. 

_No matter what._

Far in the distance, a beam of light flickered through the clouds hanging low over the city, catching her eye. She stared, wondering where the source of the light was coming from. Wondering why anyone bothered to mount a spotlight in a city that was falling apart, as if that would magically do some good. Stave off the darkness, maybe.

Selina rolled her eyes. 

_It’s too late to save Gotham. Save it completely, anyway._

_But they won’t stop trying._

Let them, she decided. Let them try, if it kept them entertained. Drawing her jacket closer around her, she turned away, bounding across the rooftop into the shadows. Her steps were light and quick, and there was no one around to see her disappear into oblivion.

Selina liked it that way.

It had been easier, back when no one had ever paid attention to her. Back when she had been left alone by everyone around. No one had cared about her then, and she had been lonely, but she was _free._

Back during a time that was simpler, when she hadn’t let herself fall in love.

\+ + + + + + + +

“What exactly is this for?” Bruce stood alongside Jim on the roof of the GCPD, next to the spotlight that had been rigged near the ledge. Jim had switched it on just moments before, and they both stared up at the bright white beam that cut through the darkness of the night sky, mesmerized at the sight. 

Jim didn’t respond for a long moment. “I like to think it makes people feel safe.” he said finally. “Helps them remember there’s someone looking out for them.” He glanced over at Bruce. “As many of us as possible, at least.”

The other nodded. “You’ve done well, Jim. Really. Considering the state of everything, you’re the one who’s kept Gotham from completely collapsing in on itself.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” The police captain shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m just helping as much as I can.”

They were silent for a moment, looking out over the city.

“Where did you get the electricity to power this up?” Bruce patted the side of the spotlight, his eyes following the line of light where it disappeared up into the sky. Jim hesitated for a moment, fiddling with the edge of his coat, and Bruce glanced over at him. “I mean, I thought the precinct had lost all power the day the bridges blew. Most of the city did."

“Yeah, it did.” Jim shrugged. “We, uh…well, I had Lucius take a look at the remaining bombs we still had locked away in GCPD storage. The ones they hadn’t used on the bridges.” 

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. Thinking about the bombs reminded him of a time that really wasn’t all that long ago. Back when he’d had a _friend_ in the person who had turned Gotham into a wasteland. Back when it hadn’t been too late for him to fix things yet.

He couldn't say anything.

He wasn’t sure what he would have said, anyway.

Jim took note of his silence. “As you know, they were originally energy converters.” Bruce nodded mutely, keeping his face neutral. “Lucius was able to fix one of them up a bit so it returned to its original purpose, and we’ve been using it to power the station.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Bruce kept his gaze fixed resolutely ahead. “Anyway, I came to see you to ask if there was anything I could do to help. I know the work’s piling up, having so few officers around, and I wanted you to know I’m at your disposal if you need me.”

“Thanks.” Jim tossed him a grateful look. Bruce had been in and out of the station for the past several weeks, helping with the odd job here and there, and although it didn’t make much of a difference sometimes, Jim still appreciated it. “There’s honestly nothing much to be done at the moment. I got an alert about some stuff going on at the old Ace Chemicals plant, but other than that, it’s been pretty quiet.”

“Ace Chemicals?” Bruce echoed, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean, there’s stuff going on there?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just something a junior officer reported. Said there were some folks trying to get the machines started up again, although for the life of me I can’t figure out why. There’s obviously not really a demand in Gotham for chemical supplies at the moment, so business will be slow for them.” He smiled drily. “And anyway, the place has been out of use for years.”

“That’s strange.”

“Not the strangest thing I’ve had to deal with in these past few months.”

“I could go take a look around there for you.”

“No.” the police captain said sharply. “It’s in the Dark Zone, for heaven’s sake. It’s a death sentence just going in past those borders.”

Bruce thought about how he and Selina had successfully snuck past every level of security in the Dark Zone, but said nothing. No one knew besides Alfred knew he had been there to witness what Selina had done. There was no sense in bringing that up now. He wasn’t even sure he could. 

Instead, he argued, “It’s close the edge of the area. I know how to not get caught.”

“You’re just a kid, Bruce. I can’t be responsible for something bad happening to you.”

“I’m eighteen, which means I’m technically an adult.”

“And I’m technically allowed to give you police orders not to go snooping around places that could get you killed.”

“Right, and what would you do about it?” Bruce countered, half-serious. “Lock me up in what prison?”

Jim sighed. “Look, Bruce, you can’t put yourself in danger for the sake of helping the GCPD. I know we’re stretched kind of thin now in terms of manpower, but I’m not going to let kids sacrifice themselves for our sake. I won’t stoop that low.”

Bruce turned back to look at the spotlight. “It’s not your fault if I make the decision myself.”

“If you try it, I’ll stop you.”

“You can try to stop me.” he smiled.

Jim shook his head, his own wry smile creeping across his face. “Honestly Bruce, this isn’t to say I’m not grateful for what you’ve done. But even now… _especially_ now, it’s important to maintain _order._ If the GCPD resorts to something like that for help, then it will show everyone we’ve failed. This precinct houses the only authorities left in Gotham, and if we can’t save our citizens, then who will?”

Bruce was silent at that, a contemplative look sweeping across his face. Jim glanced at him. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” His younger companion nodded, and he breathed a sigh of relief, pacing around to the other side of the spotlight to fiddle with a switch. “Good. I’m glad you get it. I know you want to help…jeez, I know you _can_ help, who am I kidding, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere, you know what I’m saying? Keeping you safe is the least I can do. Now you get back home to Alfred and—” he turned around and broke off sharply, glancing across the now-abandoned rooftop.

There wasn’t even the faintest shadow to show Bruce had been there in the first place.

_Huh._

_Hope he heard what I was saying._

Well, he knew Bruce had _heard,_ but he wasn’t sure if the boy had been convinced.

Jim sighed, shaking his head for what felt like the millionth time, and went back inside.

\+ + + + + + + +

“But why is the chemical plant so important?” Ecco asked as she followed close on Jeremiah’s heels through the abandoned Wayne Manor. He didn’t bother to look back as he answered,

“It’s not the place itself, per se. Once the workers have finished, I couldn’t care less about it. However it _was_ the only place in the city where one can produce chemical supplies in bulk, and it’s conveniently placed in the Dark Zone.”

“Yes, but what do you need the chemicals for?” she pressed on, wishing his plan made some semblance of sense to her. She had no doubt it _did_ make sense…to him, at least, and often found herself more than a little disgruntled that she couldn’t follow his train of thought throughout all this.

“Well, it never hurts to have a bit of a back-up plan, does it?” he replied vaguely. “Not that I don’t have the utmost faith in _his_ ability to make the right decision,” despite his words, there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes he tried to hide, “but the possibility of things going wrong must always be taken into account.”

“So that’s it.” Ecco murmured, and Jeremiah glanced back at her, eyebrows raised. “This is still all about Br—”

“Don’t.” he cut her off, his tone sharp, possessive. Ecco cringed back, even if she knew he couldn’t harm her. “Don’t speak his name.”

Her jaw clenched. “Jeremiah…”

“ _You_ can’t.” He turned away and continued down the hall, toward the study. “No one can but _us.”_

Ecco frowned, jealousy rising up despite her best efforts to contain it. She knew it was weak, letting her feelings get the better of her, but she couldn’t help it. Sometimes Jeremiah was just so _infuriating_ in his refusal to acknowledge everything _she_ had ever done for him. She had given him everything, and this was the thanks she got? 

His words, too, were confusing. Ecco paused in the middle of the hall, tilting her head. “What do you mean, _us?”_

Jeremiah’s hand closed around the doorknob to the study, and he smiled. For a moment, Ecco caught a glimpse of his old self breaking through; the shy, uncertain recluse who tried so hard to do everything the right way, even if he wasn’t sure how. 

And although Ecco had always stoically told herself she liked this new side of him, she liked the certainty and self-assurance he possessed now that his brother was dead and he had become something powerful in this city, there was a carefully hidden part of her that wanted the other Jeremiah back.

He had at least _appreciated_ her then.

She had forgotten she’d asked a question, and was startled when Jeremiah answered, pushing open the study door, which stung inward with a soft creak. “The family.” he said, his voice almost reverently hushed. Ecco slowly followed him inside, staring at the two figures seated on the sofa, motionless in the darkness of the unlit room. Jeremiah crossed over to them, one hand trailing across the stationary shoulders as his eyes gleamed. “ _Our_ family.”

He switched on the lamp that sat on the side table, and Ecco’s eyes widened as she stared, stunned, at the faces that looked back at her with impassive expressions.

Jeremiah laughed at the look on his assistant’s face, the sound high and erratic. 

_Insane._

He leaned on his wrists against the back of the sofa, pinning Ecco with a scrutinizing look. She couldn’t drag her gaze away from the couple in front of her, a picture from a newspaper flashing in her mind’s eye, a carefully cut-out front page article that Jeremiah kept with him at all times. 

The headline, repeating itself over and over again in her head.

_Thomas and Martha Wayne Murdered._

It was as if the picture had come to life.

Right here, in the study of the manor.

Ecco wasn’t sure if she was awake or dreaming.

Jeremiah stared at her, trying to gauge how she felt. Ecco knew he wouldn’t be able to tell, because in truth, she didn’t know, either.

All she knew was that this was about Bruce Wayne. It had always been about Bruce Wayne. And it always would be.

_Forever._

_It will be like this forever, between them._

_But you already knew that, didn’t you?_

Jeremiah’s hands closed around the back of the sofa, and the slight movement was enough to pull Ecco out of her thoughts to look back up at her former employer.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” he whispered, pure delight shining in his eyes. Like a child showing their parent a project they’d worked hard on. There was no malice, no malevolence in his expression.

Ecco felt like someone had run a knife through her heart.

_You’ve only ever wanted to do this for Bruce._

_I’ve truly lost you._

She nodded silently in response, because there was nothing else to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always lovely and appreciated <3 thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: like I mentioned a few chapters back, I'm probably going to start updating weekly (maybe twice a week if I have time) rather than every few days because college classes are starting and I'm gonna be Very Busy. But I'll definitely still keep working on this fic! Updates just might take a lil bit longer than usual.
> 
> Anyways, have fun reading the chapter :))

**Chapter Sixteen**

Jeremiah eyed Alfred warily as the butler stood, hands clasped behind his back, in the corner of the study. The man stared blankly ahead, and Jeremiah stared back, watching to see if anything in his expression hinted at anything that might have been going through his head. He knew the man was hypnotized, but Jeremiah had always been a cautious person, and after all, the last time he’d seen Alfred had been when the butler had been intent on bashing his face in after Jeremiah shot Selina.

“You needn’t worry. I’m _very_ thorough in my work, you may be assured of that.”

The voice, suddenly breaking the silence, startled Jeremiah, and he whirled around, hand flying to the pistol he kept at his side. He relaxed when he saw Jervis Tetch standing in the doorway, hands raised placatingly. 

“Oh, it’s just you.”

The man nodded, taking off his top hat to dust the brim with the back of his hand. “Expecting someone else, were you?”

“No. Not yet.” Jeremiah glanced impatiently out the window at the looming mass of darkness that was Gotham City across the river. “Everything is nearly in place, I can’t rush the final steps.”

“Of course not.” Jervis sat down comfortably on the wing chair in the corner, ignoring Jeremiah’s outraged glare at disturbing his arrangement of the room. He pursed his lips at the layer of dust lining the upholstery. “Will there be any housecleaning before things are in motion?”

“Yes, and you’re ruining things when you touch them.” Jeremiah said stonily, giving a pointed look at the top hat that now sat comfortably on top of a floor lamp. Jervis aggrievedly lifted it up, brushing off the top of the lamp for good measure, and got up. 

“Fine, fine.” He glanced around. “Where are the other two I did my work on?”

Jeremiah looked down at his gloved hands. “I’m not sure. They’re somewhere in the house, I guess.”

“You act as if this is real life.” Jervis commented.

“It _is_ real life!” he snapped, eyes flaming. The hypnotist took a step back. “It’s just as real as anything else ever has been!”

“Well, you do realize—”

“It’s _real.”_ the younger of the two interrupted fiercely, his hands clenched into fists. “That’s the point of all this, don’t you see? _This,”_ he opened his arms to gesture around the room, “is how it’s always been.”

“Pardon me, but it’s not.” Jervis fiddled with the end of his goatee, staying out of arm’s reach of his companion. “Even I know that, and I’m the one who,” he pulled out his watch as a demonstration, swinging it back and forth before pocketing it again, “made them this way.”

Jeremiah’s face was deathly pale with rage, and he reached out a hand to steady himself against the wall before he spoke. Jervis knew that, even angry, Jeremiah didn’t pose much of a threat, as it had only been a matter of weeks since the encounter with Selina, but he kept a cautious gaze fixed on the pistol at the other’s side. 

He’d had plenty of experience in unpredictable Valeskas with Jerome, and this was something he knew how to deal with all too well.

“If you choose to believe this is reality,” he shrugged to say he didn’t really care, and wasn’t ever going to, “that’s perfectly all right with me. Do whatever pleases you.”

He turned away, but Jeremiah’s voice stopped him. “No.” It was only one word, but the anger was evident enough. “No, you’re _wrong.”_

“Wrong, you say?” He placed a hand to his chest, raising an eyebrow. “I said you could believe whatever you want.”

“But _you_ don’t believe it.” Jeremiah drew a shaking breath, trying to retain the mask of impassiveness he worked so hard to construct. Jervis’s words had sparked a very real, very deep fury within him, and in the moment, he had let his true self break through. When that happened, it was incredibly difficult to try and retain the effect of being in control. 

Still, he could try.

“No, I don’t.” Jervis said truthfully. “I’m a magician, Valeska.” He produced a half-deck of cards from one sleeve to emphasize his words, a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth as he shuffled them in order. “I know how to make people see what they want to, almost until they truly believe it, but I know it’s all false. A facade. That’s the point, you see. You know that, too.” He tossed the card on the top of the deck over at his companion, and Jeremiah caught it deftly, looking down at it, then back up at Jervis. He flipped the card over so the man could see the face side.

“Are you trying to say something?”

“Oh, you noticed.” Jervis stepped around the still figure of the butler standing between him and Jeremiah, completely oblivious to what was going on around him. “Yes, that was intentional.”

“The joker.” Jeremiah nodded down at the card. “Why?”

“Because you’re playing a joke on yourself.” Jervis said sagely. “And if you’re not careful, you’ll end up as the punchline, too. Looking like a fool, if you don’t play your cards right.” He looked immensely pleased at his own cleverness. Jeremiah rolled his eyes.

“You’re trying to dissuade me of my plan? Now? After everything?” He tucked the playing card into his lapel pocket and paced around the back of the sofa, like a wildcat stalking its prey. Jervis eyed him. 

“Not dissuade. You’re letting yourself be drawn into your own illusions. I’m trying to save you from that.”

“They’re not illusions!” His voice rose again. “They’re as real as you and me. You know that, you helped make them.”

“Ah, and there’s the key.” He tapped the side of his head. “ _Made_ them. They weren’t like this before. None of it was. It’s all staged, like a play. And you may be the star, but you’re going to lose yourself if you pretend it’s real.”

“Go away.” There was a furious light in the younger man’s eyes, and he was practically shaking with rage. “You did what you were supposed to do, now go.”

“I was only trying to—”

“ _Don’t.”_ he hissed, stepping closer to Jervis. His hand hovered above the pistol, and the former backed toward the door, fumbling with the handle.

“Very well, very well. I’ll leave you to…whatever it is you want. No need for violence, my dear boy.”

Jeremiah watched the door shut, jaw clenched and his entire frame rigid with anger. _How dare he insinuate this isn’t real? He’s only jealous, that must be it. Jealous that you have done something better than anyone has ever dreamed. You’ve created something beyond imagination, and they simply can’t comprehend it. That’s got to be it, right?_

_Because this_ is _real._

_All of it._

_It’s always supposed to have been real._

He turned to Alfred, a smile smoothing his features although his eyes remained dark and restless. Straightening his jacket, he crossed the room, running a hand over the dusty furniture. “Bruce will be here soon.”

“Yes.” Alfred gave a curt nod.

“And I’m sure his…” he cleared his throat. “I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Wayne would want this place to look nice.” Jeremiah wasn’t quite sure what to call _them_ yet. In his experience, family wasn’t exactly something anyone would want to be associated with…there were too many memories of his mother and brother that tarnished his belief in that particular area. And this was all so new to him… _oh, well. It’ll take some time, that’s all. You’ll fit in soon enough._

“Of course.” Alfred nodded again, and Jeremiah watched him disappear after Jervis, leaving him alone in the study. He closed the door behind the butler, then sat down on the sofa, feeling the bandages across his torso shift. The muscles in his face twitched involuntarily with a spasm of pain, but Jeremiah ignored it. Instead, he stared down at the chess board, methodically moving three of the pieces to the middle of the board, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he tried to remember a proper opening strategic setup for the game. He sat back, surveying it with a pleased expression.

_No harm in a little symbolism, is there?_

He hoped Bruce would find him soon. Jervis and Ecco had brought Alfred here two days before, when the butler had been alone in the apartment (they had told Jeremiah they’d spotted Bruce speaking with Jim Gordon at the GCPD precinct, and Jeremiah hated Gordon even more for stealing his best friend’s attention, but he supposed it was the only way the other two had been able to bring Alfred to him, so it was all right in the end). Still, things could only begin if Bruce followed the clues that had been carefully laid in place. 

_Oh, he’ll find them all right. He’s always had a knack for detective work, hasn’t he? This should be a piece of cake for him._

Jeremiah’s gaze traveled to the device that he had brought to the middle of the room earlier in the day, lights blinking on and off at intervals beneath the sheet it lay under. A smile crept across his face.

_He’ll find them, and he’ll be here._

_He won’t be able to resist._

There was a faint whirring sound from the device, reminiscent of the generator bombs he’d constructed in the previous months, and Jeremiah watched the lights continue to flash every few seconds, sparks of color in the dimness of the room.

_He has no other option but to do what I want._

He knew it would be difficult to convince Bruce. He’d experienced it firsthand when his friend refused to join him in tearing down the city for themselves back when all of this began. But that was all right…Jeremiah was smart enough to be prepared for such an eventuality. 

If things didn’t go according to his plan…

Well, he wasn’t above resorting to whatever was necessary to prove his point.

_It doesn’t matter what he thinks._

_Because no matter what he does, no matter what he decides…_

_He will be proven wrong._

\+ + + + + + + + +

Bruce’s eyes were heavy and unfocused from lack of sleep for the past two nights, and he stifled a yawn as he stood on the edge of the Dark Zone, staring into the blackness of the shadowy corner of the city. For all he knew, snipers and assassins could be watching him at this very moment, ready to shoot him the instant he stepped foot across the border of the neutral ground he stood on. 

Not that any of that would stop him.

Alfred had been missing ever since Bruce had come back from the precinct after talking to Jim Gordon the other night, and the apartment had been empty, without a single light on inside when he’d gotten home. Having hurriedly searched for the butler in any place he thought he could possibly be in the area, Bruce had returned to the apartment, scouring everything in sight for some sort of indication of where the man had gone. 

He didn’t understand what anyone would want with Alfred…there was no one the butler had any connections to in the city. 

And after a few hours of thought dedicated to that point, Bruce had come up with the conclusion that this wasn’t merely about Alfred going missing.

It had something to do with _himself,_ as well.

He just didn’t understand what.

Surely it wasn’t Selina…there had been strain on their relationship for the past few weeks, and Bruce knew it was impossible to gauge what she would do in the moment if she was _truly_ angry, but she _hadn’t_ been angry the last time he’d seen her, and anyway, he knew she wouldn’t bother to involve anyone aside from him if she was holding a grudge.

So Selina could be safely crossed off the list of suspects.

Aside from her, Bruce truly couldn’t think of anyone else in Gotham who had a vendetta against him. Sure, he was rich, but that wouldn’t do any good now. Money meant nothing in the city at the moment, and a billionaire was about as powerful as any of the citizens of the Narrows…it was truly survival of the fittest in this wasteland of a city now, and money didn’t factor into that at all.

It _couldn’t_ be someone out to blackmail him, then.

Bruce had continued to search the apartment and the surrounding area for the next day and a half, not even bothering to pause in his work to alert Jim or any of the GCPD to what was going on. He was wholly focused on finding Alfred, and he hadn’t even thought about eating or sleeping once…Alfred was the only remaining person who he could connect to his family and his life before his parents’ death, and losing the butler would be unthinkable.

It hadn’t been until nearly two days later that he’d found Selina’s knife embedded in the wall beside the front door of the apartment.

Bruce had stared at it, his head reeling, trying to comprehend what it meant. He couldn’t bring himself to suspect Selina herself had anything to do with any of this…it wasn’t like her, and she had no reason for it. She _couldn’t_ be involved in…whatever this was.

But then, why had her knife been there?

It had been a source of agonizing confusion for Bruce, and he had spent more than two hours trying to decipher the meaning behind something like that. It was a message, that was clear enough…a clue to what was going on, but he couldn’t understand what. If Selina had done this, she wouldn’t have been so obvious as to leave her own weapon behind…she preferred to be as covert as possible, not revealing anything that could connect her to what she did.

So it _wasn’t_ Selina.

That knowledge had only made Bruce more confused.

The next logical conclusion he came up with made his blood run cold and had made him look around nervously through the apartment to ensure he wasn’t being watched. The only way a connection could be drawn between him and that knife would be if someone knew he was a witness to the…to the murder Selina had committed. 

Bruce still couldn’t bring himself to even _think_ his former friend’s name.

And if they knew about that…

It meant they had been watching him.

And they had Alfred.

Bruce had vowed to not let that prospect unsettle him as much as it inwardly did, had steeled his nerves, and promptly headed to the Dark Zone, donning the black bulletproof coat Lucius Fox had made for him. He contemplated wearing the mask, too, but then, if someone knew who he was and _wanted_ him to return to the scene of the crime (there was no other logical reason why they would have used that specific knife as a message as to where they would be for Bruce to find them) then there was no point in trying to hide.

And so he found himself standing on the outskirts of the Dark Zone just hours later, still confused as ever but knowing what he had to do.

Alfred was nearly all he had left, and if Bruce lost him…

_No, don’t think about that. Just think about what you have to do. Meet these people, negotiate with them, give them what they want. And if that doesn’t work, you’ll fight them. Try to win._

_You_ will _win._

Drawing a deep breath, Bruce disappeared into the shadows, silently skirting the outside of the Dark Zone borders, then headed towards the factory where he knew something had to be waiting for him.

\+ + + + + + + +

Jeremiah stared at the two figures in the Wayne Manor study, listening intently to their quiet conversation. A small smile flitted across his face. This all looked so natural, so perfectly _normal,_ as if it had been going on uninterrupted for the past five years.

As if no one had ever been murdered in an alley in the first place.

_And no one was._

_No one has to be._

_That,_ he thought, contemplatively glancing down at the glass of whiskey he held before bringing it to his lips, _is entirely for Bruce to decide._

His gaze turned impatiently to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, ticking steadily away. It was already quite late in the afternoon, and Bruce had better hurry up if he wanted to arrive at a house that was still standing.

Jeremiah wasn’t usually one to give into the impulses of impatience, but, he admitted, holding tighter onto the detonator clutched in one gloved hand, there were times when it was difficult to suppress them. He _had_ been waiting an insufferably long time for Bruce to come home, and the evening _couldn’t_ progress until the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.

_No need to worry,_ he thought consolingly, his silver eyes surveying the couple in the room with him as if they were specimens in an experiment. 

_He’ll be here in good time._

\+ + + + + + + + + +

_Thomas and Martha Wayne Murdered._

He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

_Thomas and Martha Wayne Murdered._

He remembered, he remembered it as vividly as if it had happened the day before.

_Thomas and Martha Wayne Murdered._

Bruce reeled back, staring helplessly at the headlines that glared unyieldingly at him from where they were plastered haphazardly along the wall. Everywhere he looked, everything he saw…it was the only thing he _could_ see.

He backed away, stumbling against the rickety metal railing of the narrow ledge he stood on, reaching behind him to grasp the rusty beams for support.

His mouth felt dry and he fought to keep memories from rising in the back of his mind.

All he could see were his parents’ faces.

On those front pages of the newspapers in front of him, serene and smiling for the camera.

Motionless on the ground of the alley, blood dripping from their ice-cold flesh…

Bruce held on tighter to the railing.

_The sound of a gun firing in the sudden silence…_

He saw them fall.

Saw the man in front of him.

Faceless, nameless…

The man he hated.

_Who…_

The moment replayed over and over and _over_ in his mind, consuming everything else. Bruce couldn’t try to forget it now. He never could.

It was a part of him.

Who he _was._

_But why…_

Slowly, he drew a long breath, steadying himself and blinking rapidly until everything came back into proper focus. He was standing inside the abandoned factory, in the same place he had found Selina and dragged her back out of the Dark Zone before they had been caught. The _exact_ same place…he saw dried blood that stained the wall hidden behind the newspapers plastered up against it.

Bruce shuddered.

_What does it mean?_

His eyes caught sight of a large black arrow spray-painted on the concrete wall, and Bruce stepped toward it carefully. He couldn’t remember if it had been there before, the last time he was here…the memory of that time had blurred itself in his mind, mostly out of his desire to _not_ remember any of it.

But he didn’t think it had been there before.

Bruce crept closer to the arrow, brushing his fingers lightly across the paint. They came away black, and he could see the shine that indicated it had been freshly applied, mostly likely within the past few hours. 

_It’s meant for you. You’re supposed to follow it._

He knew it likely led to something dangerous, something he would regret. But these people—whoever they were—had Alfred. And Bruce couldn’t be a coward. Not now.

He tried not to look at the headlines in front of him. The picture that seared into his soul like a painful wrench of a knife. 

His _family._

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

His anger toward the perpetrator of all this almost outweighed his apprehension.

Squaring his shoulders, he followed the arrow through the doorway and into the shadows beyond.

\+ + + + + + + +

“Who are you?”

“Thomas Wayne.” The voice was almost robotic, and Jeremiah frowned, displeased.

“I _said,_ who are you?”

The man cleared his throat. His voice became more natural. Jeremiah thought he almost saw the ghost of a benevolent smile. A _fatherly_ smile. “Thomas Wayne.”

“Good.” He turned to the woman beside him, adjusting the lapel of her tan coat like a child would dress a doll. “And you are—?”

“Martha Wayne.”

_“Good.”_ He stepped back, looking them over scrutinizingly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “It seems as if everything is in order between us.”

\+ + + + + + + + +

There was a tunnel.

Crudely constructed, a gaping hole in the concrete wall of the factory basement, stretching into blackness and oblivion beyond. Bruce stared, feeling tension build throughout his body. 

There were no signs alongside the tunnel, no indication what it was for.

They weren’t needed. The indication was clear enough on his own.

_That’s where you’ll find them._

_Whatever is beyond that tunnel…_

_Whoever it is…_

_That’s how you’ll find them._

Bruce stepped inside.

There was nothing but darkness.

_You can’t turn back._

He wanted to.

Somehow, he knew there was something terrible waiting on the other side. He knew if he went, he might not come back.

He didn’t want to keep going.

He did anyway.

\+ + + + + + + + +

“And it has always been like this?”

They nodded, almost in unison, but not quite. It looked more natural that way. Jervis Tetch was truly a master of his craft. Jeremiah reminded himself to thank the man at some point later on.

“Yes, always.” Thomas was the one to speak, and Jeremiah nearly remembered being fourteen and meeting the man for the first time to discuss the engineering of Wayne Plaza, eyes wide and admiring behind oversized glasses, wishing he could have had a father like that. 

But he didn’t remember it.

That memory was all but gone.

It didn’t fit with the rest of the story.

_No, not the story._

_Never the story._

_The truth._

He smiled coldly.

_The truth, and nothing else._

“All of us, together.” Martha Wayne linked her arm with her husband’s and smiled, glancing up at him. Jeremiah watched them both carefully, studying them as if he had never seen another human being before.

_All of us._

_Yes, she’s right._

_She’s right, and I’m right._

_And Bruce will finally see that._

\+ + + + + + + + + +

Bruce hated the darkness, hated this place.

He hated whoever had orchestrated all of this.

It was cruel and heartless, and it could only have been designed to break him down. Crush him under the weight of painful memories, memories of his lost family, of everything that once was.

Back when he hadn’t felt alone.

Back when the world wasn’t so dark.

_I’m going to find them._ His eyes darkened at the thought of whatever nameless person had done this. _I’m going to find them, and I’m going to stop them for good._

_So they can never do something like this again._

_Not to me, and not to anyone else._

_They don’t deserve mercy._

His hands clenched into fists.

_Someone like that doesn’t deserve anything._

\+ + + + + + + + 

“Why are you still here? I thought I told you to load the fireworks onto the truck and wait for my instructions.”

Ecco scuffed her foot against the carpet, standing in the doorway. “I just…I wanted to…” She trailed off, staring at the ground. Jeremiah arched one eyebrow.

“What?”

“I wanted to tell you…”

She wanted to tell him so much.

She always had.

_You never will._

_And after tonight, you’ll never get to._

She knew everything would change. Knew that this was the turning point. It had all been leading up to this, everything he had done.

Tonight, no matter what happened, she would lose him for good.

_But you knew that from the start._

_It’s only been a matter of time._

“If you don’t have anything to say…” Jeremiah spoke up in the ensuing silence, and Ecco looked at him sharply, her eyes wordlessly pleading for him to understand the things she could never speak.

Never, because he didn’t want to hear them.

They didn’t matter.

_She_ didn’t matter.

“It’s nothing.” she finally said.

_Liar. It’s everything._

Jeremiah gave her a long stare, searching her expression. For a moment, Ecco thought that maybe she saw a flicker of realization in his eyes. 

Realization of how much she cared.

Then it was gone.

“Okay.” Jeremiah glanced pointedly at the door. “Are you leaving now?”

_Why couldn’t you just leave for good?_

_Leave all this behind. Leave him behind._

_It would have hurt less that way._

But she knew she never would. 

“Yes.” she whispered, her hand lingering on the doorframe as she backed away. Jeremiah’s eyes didn’t leave her face. She saw something indecipherable in his expression, and didn’t bother trying to figure it out. What good would it do now? “Yes, I’m leaving.”

_When this is over, come back to me._

Her steps felt heavy and too loud in the silence of the manor hall.

_Please, please come back to me._

\+ + + + + + + +

Bruce couldn’t see more than half a foot in front of his face. The tunnel sometimes grew so narrow that he couldn’t walk straight, sometimes so short he had to bend over nearly double.

He kept going.

There was a flight of steps that looked oddly familiar, and if he had his bearings, he would have recognized them as the ones that led down to Thomas Wayne’s secret office Bruce and Alfred had found several years ago.

Right now, he didn’t know what they were.

_That doesn’t matter._

_You have to keep going._

He started up the steps.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

“Perhaps, Alfred,” Jeremiah spoke up from where he was sitting in the corner of the room, “you would be so kind as to bring that box I mentioned into the kitchen. Just so it’s not forgotten.”

“Already done, sir.” the butler replied crisply. 

“Wonderful.” Jeremiah smiled, clasping both hands over one knee. 

He stared at the fireplace expectantly, watching. 

Waiting.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

The first glimpse of light was startling.

Bruce blinked, not sure if it was real, or his eyes playing a trick on him. 

No, it _was_ a light.

At the top of the stairs.

He quickened his pace, feeling his breath catch in his throat.

_Whoever you are…_

_Whatever you’ve done…_

His dark eyes were narrowed with concentration, his lips drawn into a thin line. The shadows shrouded his face almost completely, and if anyone had seen his expression, they may have backed away in fear of its intensity.

_You are going to pay._

\+ + + + + + + + + +

When they first heard the sound of someone mounting the stone stairs behind the fireplace in the study, Jeremiah looked up. 

His silver eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

Even _he_ didn’t know what he felt.

All he could do was give the room one final look to ensure everything was where it belonged.

Everything, and everyone.

_Nothing_ could go wrong anymore. It couldn’t. Not after everything he had done. This was the culmination of it all, and there was no way for him _not_ to win.

He would triumph this time.

Jeremiah forced a smile onto his face, sitting up straighter and slipping the detonator into his pocket.

_And it’s for you._

He saw the shadow fall across the floor and choked back a laugh.

_It’s all for you._

_\+ + + + + + + + + +_

He squinted in the comparatively bright light, brushing a hand across his eyes. For a moment, he thought that maybe he was dreaming.

He _had_ to be dreaming.

There was no other explanation…

He was in the manor. In his own _home._

Bruce stepped cautiously inside, staring. Not letting himself believe this was real. It was _ludicrous,_ insane, even. It didn’t make sense, and even if this really was Wayne Manor, if he really was awake, it didn’t make sense.

_Why would anyone want…_

Then he saw the two people standing in the middle of the room and he felt like he had been punched in the chest. The breath rushed from his lungs and it seemed like he was choking, and for a moment, his vision swam before his eyes. He wanted to turn and run, wanted to pinch himself and wake up, wanted to get _away._

They were…

“Who are you?” His voice was nearly toneless, and he stared at them in a near state of shock, every muscle tensed to the breaking point in his body. 

_Who are you, how did this happen, what’s happening to me…_

The man looked up, and Bruce saw himself staring into familiar, terribly familiar eyes. He thought that maybe he should be happy, thought maybe he should run into those people’s arms, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t think clearly.

And the part of his mind that _did_ work was telling him the truth.

_It’s not them._

“Whatever do you mean, Bruce?” the man asked, and Bruce wondered if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. Then he realized it was only a response to the question he _had_ asked them. He kept staring, not knowing what else to do.

_You…you are…_

“We’re your parents.” the woman added on, and the words reverberated in Bruce’s head, echoing over and over again as if that would help him decipher what was going on.

“Master Bruce!” Finally, a voice he knew was real. Bruce spun around, staring straight at Alfred, who, to his surprise, wasn’t being held captive or with a gun to his head by some criminal who had arranged all this. He supposed he shouldn’t be shocked…this was the work of someone beyond mere criminality…it was so much more. So much more _personal,_ and that made Bruce even more confused.

He tried to ignore the two people looking at him from across the room.

“Alfred, how did you—” he began breathlessly, but the butler interrupted, shaking his head almost scoldingly. 

“Look at the sight of you. Here, let’s get you spruced up.” Alfred wasn’t looking at him, not really, and Bruce stepped out of his arm’s reach, suddenly suspicious. 

It was Alfred, but something was _wrong._

This felt artificial. Orchestrated. He didn’t know what to think.

_This has to be a dream._

_No, not a dream._

His gaze strayed to the strangers—yes, they had to be strangers, they _were_ —who looked back at him in turn.

_It’s a nightmare._

“After all,” Alfred was saying, and Bruce’s attention snapped back to him, noticing the man was gesturing to something behind him. But he didn’t turn around, only kept staring at the butler with wide, uncomprehending eyes, confused and disoriented at everything that was happening. “we have a guest.”

“We have…” The words died on his lips and Bruce couldn’t move. 

There was someone else here.

He could see Alfred watching them, could see the stares of the two strangers turn almost dependently to whoever was behind him, and Bruce didn’t want to look back because he was afraid of what he would see. After all this, he didn’t know what to expect.

He didn’t _want_ to be afraid. He wanted to be in control of his fear, in the very least. But something was holding him back, something was stifling his usual abilities to become stronger than the things that scared him. 

He didn’t know who it was.

He didn’t want to know.

_You have to find out._

_You have to get answers._

Bruce turned around.

Brown eyes met silver ones, and Bruce backed away, startled. His voice had deserted him, and even if it hadn’t there was nothing he could say. Nothing he could do but stare in a combination of disbelief and growing uncertainty of his own mental capabilities of distinguishing nightmares from reality.

_You…_

Jeremiah smiled at him, raising the glass he held slightly as his eyes burned bright and ravenous in the shadows of the room.

“Welcome home, Bruce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are life! ;)


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

“Well, that’s just too bad.” Oswald Cobblepot lowered the binoculars that had been pressed against his face moments before and shook his head, the wind ruffling his carefully styled hair. “Really, I understand the theatricality of blowing up the bridges, but now we have to deal with _land mines?”_

Selina chewed her lip absently as she stared out over the river alongside her companion, having stopped listening to his griping after the first twenty minutes. “Okay, so we’ve established there’s no way to get out of Gotham like _that,”_ she nodded toward the now-demolished fishing boat that had fallen victim to said land mines hidden in the river, smoke drifting lazily into the sky as the flames died down beneath the lapping grey waves. “but that doesn’t really accomplish anything.”

“Clearly.” Oswald said disdainfully, smiling with a condescending expression at her. “And you aren’t exactly being much help.”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to be planning his way out of here. I’m just along for the ride.”

“You know,” he commented as he turned back to the river, picking up the binoculars again to observe the damage they were witnessing, “I always pictured you as someone who would enjoy Gotham as it is now. What with being a thief and all,” he missed Selina’s glare, “you’ve got a lot of opportunity to live quite nicely in all this chaos.”

“If you’re trying to convince me to stay here for your own convenience, don’t.” she said tightly. “I’ve made up my mind, and I’m leaving this city for good. I can’t…I can’t stay.”

_I have to leave, otherwise I’ll never stop letting Bruce control me._

Although she knew that wasn’t quite right.

_Stop letting myself be controlled by what he thinks, then._

It was the only way she could feel free.

She didn’t _want_ to leave.

“Well, make yourself useful, then.” Oswald said impatiently. “Make sure no one sneaks up on us or something like that. I’m the Penguin, after all. Bounties have been put on my head, being a citizen of some importance to this city.” He said it with more than a little pride.

Selina sighed long-sufferingly, feeling for her knife and assuming a watchful position behind his back. She paused when her hand brushed against nothing but the empty sheath she carried the weapon in, and glanced down sharply. 

The knife was gone.

Her breath caught in her throat for a moment. Normally, she wouldn’t have cared if her knife had been stolen; it was easy enough to get another. But this one in particular…she had held onto it with an almost obsessive sort of attitude, as if she felt compelled to remember what she had done. _Who_ she had become, because of it.

It was what reminded her that she would never be as good as Bruce.

And why she had to leave Gotham.

And now it was _gone._

Selina looked around suspiciously, wondering if the thief was still in sight, but she knew it would do no good. They were likely long gone, and there was nothing she could do now.

_That doesn’t change anything._

_It doesn’t change who you are._

_You’re still a killer._

“Selina, I have an idea.” Oswald announced suddenly, breaking through her muddled thoughts. “It’s evident there is no chance of our successfully escaping via the river.”

“Wow, who’d have thought.” she managed to reply sarcastically, hoping her unease wasn’t evident on her face at the loss of her weapon. Oswald chose to ignore her tone.

“However, this doesn’t mean we have to remain in Gotham.”

“I hope not. Otherwise it’s curtains for our partnership. You promised we’d get out of here.”

“Hmph.” He elbowed past her aggrievedly and Selina followed on his heels, keeping a sharp eye open for any sign of whoever had stolen her knife. “There’s no need for that kind of accusation.”

“Not an accusation, just a warning.”

“Right.” He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “In any case, I still have a plan.”

“Which is?”

“Jeremiah Valeska came to me several months ago inquiring about workers for a project he was involved in.” Oswald didn’t noice the subtle change in Selina’s expression at the mention of that name, the way her eyes darkened as she stared stoically ahead. “Of course, I didn’t inquire why. Valeska had a…significant amount of power in the city at the time.”

“I’m aware.”

“However,” Oswald facetiously skirted a puddle of gasoline in the potholed pavement, “I caught word of a few pieces of information once he was so graciously killed by none other than _you,_ from one of his followers, on what he was doing.”

“What?” Selina asked between her teeth.

Seemingly oblivious to her discomfort at the topic, Oswald answered, “Digging a tunnel beneath the river. Presumably to the mainland.”

Selina’s eyes grew wide. “What?”

“Yes, my reaction exactly.” he nodded. “Insane, I know. But we seem to have no other option of getting out of Gotham, and since his little…group…has been disbanded, understandably, we might as well give this a try. A last resort, if you will.”

Selina was silent, still following along being Oswald, but she wanted to turn and run. The prospect of retracing the steps she had taken to murder someone in cold blood, even if this was simply a chance to escape the city, was unpleasant enough, but using his plan for their own benefit? She couldn’t explain why, but it sent a cold shiver up her spine.

Still, she admitted regretfully to herself, did they have another choice?

Surely not, otherwise they wouldn’t even consider this option.

Wordlessly, she kept pace with Oswald as they made their way through the maze of the city.

\+ + + + + + + + +

“You’re alive.” 

Bruce didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know if he _could_ think. He could only stare in ever-growing confusion and doubt, and it was impossible to make sense of any of this. 

Although, in the back of his mind, he half-acknowledged that it _did._

In some sort of hazy, convoluted way, it made sense.

There was no one else in Gotham who would have known to do something like this, something that struck so close to everything he held dear…

But it still begged the question…

_How is he alive?_

_I…_

_I watched him die._

_I watched Selina…_

“Clearly.” Jeremiah smiled, his eyes fixed on Bruce’s face with an intensity the latter had never seen before. “Death would have…put a bit of a damper on things.”

“You can’t be alive.”

“Can I not? The evidence is here.” He spread his arms out, still staring at Bruce. “I’m not sure which part you don’t believe.”

“But I saw you die.” he insisted, clinging on to the last piece of reality he knew to be true. Didn’t he? It was true, wasn’t it? 

But if it was…

“Oh, Bruce.” Jeremiah shook his head, looking almost disappointed. He got to his feet, depositing the glass he held on a side table and leaning casually over the back of the chair. “You and I both know that death can so often be little more than an illusion. Does it mean _anything,_ really, to see someone allegedly killed before your eyes?” He raised one eyebrow before answering his own question, not bothering to give Bruce a chance to speak up. “It doesn’t. Not in my experience.”

Bruce wondered if he was talking about Jerome, and the time he and Jeremiah had thought they’d see him die by Theo Galavan’s hand all those years ago. But he could see none of that deeply-rooted unease that he had come to associate with Jeremiah at every mention of his brother…it was almost unnatural. 

_Does it matter what he’s talking about? Does any of that matter? The point is, he’s alive._

_He’s alive, and he’s orchestrated all of this._

_From the very beginning._

“You did all this.” he repeated his thought aloud, his voice very nearly catching in his throat.

_But why?_

_What did I ever do to you to provoke something like this?_

_I only ever tried to save you from falling into madness._

“Well, yes, obviously.” Jeremiah laughed, casting a pleased glance at the replicas of the Wayne billionaires who were watching the exchange silently, their hypnotized eyes blank. 

“Why?” Bruce finally voiced the question aloud, and Jeremiah gave him a bemused look, a sudden flash of doubt in his eyes. “What do you have against me?”

“Against _you?”_ he echoed, shocked. “I have nothing against you, Bruce. I never have.”

“But then why—”

“Don’t you see?” Jeremiah spoke over him, agitation momentarily breaking through his composed tone. “Don’t you understand it?”

Bruce frowned.

_Understand what?_

_I understand you’ve tried to trick me into believing my parents are alive again_ —he had fully convinced himself of _that_ by now, as he’d come to grips with the fact it was impossible to bring his _real_ parents back— _but I don’t understand why. I don’t know what you want from me._

As if reading Bruce’s thoughts, Jeremiah spoke up again. “I thought it was very simple.”

Anger flared up inside him at that, and Bruce lunged toward Jeremiah, who darted behind the sofa, producing a remote switch from his pocket. Bruce froze, staring helplessly again. 

“I spent the better part of three years living under this roof, and I’d hate to have to send it crashing down on us all.” Jeremiah said calmly, and Bruce noticed the device that sat in the opposite corner, half-hidden in the shadows and blinking multicolored lights at random intervals. 

“A bomb?” he managed, and Jeremiah nodded.

“But don’t worry, I won’t detonate it as long as you don’t get the notion into your head that you can take me down. Because you can’t, Bruce. You really can’t.” His voice was soft, almost adoring, and it contradicted everything he said, every threat that fell from his lips. “No one can.”

Bruce swallowed hard. “I can try.”

“You could.” Jeremiah acquiesced with a small shrug, detonator still in hand. “But are you willing to lose everything and everyone you care about in the process?”

“First of all,” Bruce said, finally able to find his voice again, “I don’t think you’re one to lecture me on leaving behind the things that matter to me. Look at what _you’ve_ done.” He took a step toward Jeremiah, who backed away to maintain the distance between them, watching Bruce carefully as his hand curled tighter around the remote in his hand. “You’ve broken down every relationship that kept you sane, everything that ever mattered to you.”

Jeremiah’s eye twitched and Bruce could see he was furious. “I didn’t—”

“And secondly,” Bruce continued, keeping his tone low and even, “you say there are people I care about in this house.” The words felt heavy, weighed down by the meaning they carried. He didn’t want to hear them come from his own mouth, but they were undeniably true. Painful, perhaps, and it felt as if they were tearing a hole in his heart when he spoke them, but _true._ “But that’s just part of the illusion you’ve created for yourself. You’ve made yourself think that these people…these strangers,” he nodded to the hypnotized couple in the middle of the room, but his eyes were on Jeremiah, and they both knew he wasn’t speaking exclusively about them, “mean something to me.”

“They’re your family.” Jeremiah replied tonelessly.

“No. My family died in an alleyway more than five years ago. I watched them die in front of me, and I had their blood on my hands.” He felt like he was suffocating as he voiced each word, but he kept going. “They aren’t coming back, and you haven’t recreated anything.”

“But you _do_ care about them. You have to—” Desperation crept into his former friend’s eyes, and Bruce felt his heart inexplicably twist. 

_I’m sorry—_

Then it was gone, replaced by a numb sort of pain that stifled everything else. Jeremiah didn’t deserve that sort of sympathy, if it really could be called that.

Whatever they had before, it was gone.

It was _gone,_ and Bruce knew it wouldn’t come back.

He met Jeremiah’s eyes again, and the latter narrowed his gaze, searching Bruce’s for the familiar compassion he had grown so accustomed to.

The one thing he had relied on for so many years. 

It wasn’t there anymore.

Bruce was looking at him as if he was a stranger.

“I don’t care about them.” Bruce said firmly. He saw Jeremiah’s eyes glaze over, almost as if he had put up a shield to ward off the inevitable words he knew would follow. Trying to protect himself from the truth. “I don’t care about them, or you.”

“That’s fine.” Jeremiah’s voice was strained, but his face remained composed. _Resigned._ “I can’t say I didn’t expect you to say that.”

“So why would you do this?” Bruce persisted, keeping a wary eye on the detonator in Jeremiah’s hand. He knew he couldn’t push the other too far, not if he wanted to ensure the safety of Wayne Manor. Because despite his indifferent words, he wanted anything but to see the innocent hypnotized couple caught in the middle of this mess they were unwittingly involved in. He couldn’t allow them to die because of his own temper. And then there was Alfred to think about. 

Bruce’s jaw clenched, and a rush of hatred shot through him.

Hatred for Jeremiah, and for ensnaring him in such a selfish trap. 

It was nothing short of _cruel_.

“Because,” Jeremiah finally said, breaking the heavy silence in which Bruce had gotten lost in thought, “I wanted to show you the truth you’ve always known.”

“You’re going to have to explain to me what that is.” Bruce said stiffly.

He could see he had hurt the other boy’s feelings at that, but he also realized he didn’t care. Not anymore. His anger had overwhelmed any trace of empathy that had remained…he didn’t even recognize the other as the Jeremiah he had known anymore. 

His friend was gone.

All that remained was a monster.

_No better than Jerome._

_No better than everything he was always afraid of becoming._

_Everything he always tried to never become._

“Well,” Jeremiah replied aggrievedly, clearly disappointed that Bruce wasn’t playing along, “it’s the truth about us.”

“Not a sufficient explanation.” His eyes darted to the detonator, hoping that wasn’t going to provoke Jeremiah into action. Fortunately, it didn’t.

“ _Us,_ Bruce. What we’ve always been.” He gestured aimlessly around the room, as if searching for the right words. “You’ve…we need each other.” Something Bruce couldn’t decipher flashed in his eyes. “One way or another, we always will.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why didn’t you leave me to die in the hands of Theo Galavan four years ago?” Jeremiah shot back, obviously prepared for Bruce’s negation of his claim. “Why did you stay friends with me when I told you I killed Jerome? And even though you were wrong, why did you try to keep me safe by pushing me away because you believed it was dangerous to be involved with you? Why did you care, Bruce, if you don’t need me?”

“Because we were friends, Jeremiah.” _We were friends. Were. Once, one time._ “That’s what friends do for each other. Of course I wanted to help you. But you were the one who stopped listening to _me.”_

“Only because you didn’t want to believe in me. In what _we_ could have done. Could have been. This city could have been ours.”

“I didn’t want it.” Bruce took another step toward him. Jeremiah watched him carefully. “I only wanted you to fight the madness Jerome sparked in you.”

“ _Don’t_ ever say his name again!” the other boy snapped, his silvery eyes suddenly burning with a fierce, defensive darkness that Bruce had never seen before. For an instant, the mask of control was lifted. “He’s gone, Bruce, he’s gone forever, and there’s only _you_ now. You’re better than he ever could have been, you’re _more_ than he ever was.”

“But that doesn’t change reality.” Bruce said staunchly. “I was never your real family, Jeremiah. And mine was never yours. No matter what you pretend,” his gaze strayed to the replicas of his parents, “it will never be true. Especially not now. You’ve tricked yourself into believing a lie that you’ve constructed for yourself.”

“It’s not a lie!”

“Then what is it?” Bruce countered. “If this is reality, why did you have to convince yourself of it? Why did you have to go to such lengths to prove the point? If it was true, wouldn’t I simply accept it?” He paused, noticing a flicker of unease in the other’s expression. The silence hung heavy between them. Bruce’s gaze didn’t falter. “Wouldn’t _you?”_

“I don’t know what you mean.” Jeremiah’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Bruce knew it was the only way he could cope with what he was hearing. Trying to protect himself from the truth. 

“You know exactly what I mean.” he said quietly, ignoring the almost imperceptible flinch his words garnered. “If you believed I was the only family you ever had, believed it so much that you were able to forget your _real_ family, forget Jerome and everything that happened between the two of you,” he noticed Jeremiah’s shoulders tense at the second mention of his brother, “then you wouldn’t have had to construct your own version of reality. It would simply be true, and that would be enough.”

“Why are you so against this, Bruce?” Jeremiah hissed, making no attempt to hide his anger now. “Why won’t you accept it? Do you really hate me so much that you can’t bring yourself to believe this?”

“If you only had resisted the darkness inside you, I would have believed it.” Bruce said slowly, never breaking eye contact. “You _were_ like my brother, Jeremiah, you used to be. You were as good as family back then, but things have changed. _You’ve_ changed them. You were the one who pushed me away.”

_There, I said it._

_The truth, and we both know that’s what it is._

_You can’t deny it._

Bruce could see the million emotions that chased each other across his companion’s face, the stubborn refusal to believe those words, coupled with the deep-set knowledge that it was true. It was an inner war, each side fighting for prominence, and Bruce remained silent. There was nothing more he could say to change things, he knew. It wouldn’t help.

They had gone too far for that.

“Fine.” Jeremiah finally broke the silence, his expression stony and eyes cold as shards of ice. “I gave you a choice. A fighting chance.” An unfriendly, vindictive smile lifted the corners of his lips. Bruce shivered despite himself. “Remember that, Bruce.”

“What do you mean?” He couldn’t repress the cold feeling that had settled over him. There was something oddly unnerving about the look in Jeremiah’s eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, you don’t know. Not yet.” Jeremiah, slipping the detonator casually into his pocket, crossed the room to stand between the two adults who were looking blankly at Bruce, rehearsed smiles on their faces as they remained silent, and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “But you know me, Bruce. You know me better than anyone else in this city. In the world, most likely.” His grip tightened, almost possessively. “And you know I’ve always had a tendency to prepare for every outcome.”

“Meaning…?” Bruce asked uncertainly, and Jeremiah tilted his head at him.

“Really, Bruce, for someone who’s investigative skills are remarkably above average, you’ve ignored an incredibly important detail concerning your parents.” He gestured to the two figures on either side of him.

“They’re not my—”

“Preservation of the scene of the crime is of utmost necessity.” Jeremiah continued, seemingly unfazed by the interruption. “Even if the crime was committed nearly half a decade ago.” His hand brushed against the sleeve of the suit the man who looked like Thomas Wayne was wearing. “Authenticity is very important to me.”

From out of nowhere, a memory flashed through Bruce’s head. 

Just as clear as the night it had happened.

Just as painful.

_“Wallet, jewelry.”_

Just as angry.

_“Give it to me.”_

He saw the barrel of the gun as it aimed toward his face for a paralyzing moment.

He remembered clutching his father’s sleeve in sheer terror and confusion at the stranger’s interception. The sleeve of the suit…

The same suit…

_He’s going to…_

Bruce blinked.

The gun went off.

_I hate him._

_I hate him I hate him I hate him…_

_Wanted him dead…_

Jeremiah was looking at him intently, watching his changing expression. Waiting for the realization to process.

Smiling.

_Wanted to stop him, but it was…_

_It was…_

_It’s too late._

The sound of pearls clattering on the ground felt like a hundred bullets to the heart. Bruce couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.

Three words were the only things to formulate in his mind. _Those_ he understood clearly enough. He understood them more clearly than anything else. Anything he had ever known.

_I hate him._

There was blood on his hands.

_“Bruce.”_

No. No, that couldn’t happen. These people were innocent. _My parents were innocent._ He couldn’t let them die in front of him. Not now.

Not again.

_You have to save them._

_Stop him._

_“Don’t be afraid.”_

_Stop him this time._

“You won’t.” His voice sounded hoarse, breathless. The shadows in his eyes had darkened. Jeremiah was still smiling. He sat down on the sofa, picking up one of the chess pieces. A knight. Turning it over contemplatively in his hands, his smile widened. 

“Why not?”

Bruce didn’t have an answer to that. Everything he tried to say was gone before he could give it a voice. For a long moment, he stood mutely, staring with a blank expression at Jeremiah. Searching for something to combat his question. Something to dissuade him of his plan.

“You’re not like that.” He couldn’t even convince himself of that anymore, and he knew it would make no difference to say it aloud, but there was nothing else he _could_ do. “You’re not a killer.”

“I’ve been a killer for _years,_ Bruce.” He set down the chess piece and looked up intently at the other boy. “You know that. No matter how it happened, it’s still the truth. It’s a part of me.” 

Bruce clenched his hands into fists. _No. It doesn’t have to be._ “What are you trying to accomplish? I thought you said—”

“You hated him, Bruce. The man who killed them.” The intensity was burning in his eyes again. “You hated him for what he did, so much that you didn’t give up until you found him. You wanted him dead. Wanted to murder him yourself.”

“But I didn’t.”

“The point is,” Jeremiah lifted his chin resolutely, catching Bruce’s gaze, “you were connected to him. Through hatred, of course. And really, when it comes down to it, there’s no difference.” He seemed to be speaking more to himself than anything now, and Bruce frowned.

“No difference between what?”

“Think about it.” He didn’t bother to explain, or answer the question. “He changed everything for you. He _made_ you, Bruce, he’s always been a part of you ever since he shot your parents that night. No matter how much you may deny that, it’s true.”

“I’m not denying it.”

“Good.” They held each other’s stared intently. “Then you’ll understand everything in time. And you’ll accept it.” He paused, watching, to see Bruce’s reaction. “You _will.”_

“I still don’t—”

“It’s a small price to pay, their lives.” Jeremiah glanced over to the other two people in the room. “But you already know that. I’ve told you.” He nodded down at the chess board, to the three pieces he had positioned in the middle. 

Bruce followed his gaze. “What?”

“I’ve told you before. The king’s gambit. I’m willing to sacrifice the pawns to get what I need. What we _both_ need.” He looked up at Bruce. The latter met his eyes with a weary expression. “And I’ve given you the chance to accept it. That’s the only way a chess opening can move forward, you know. Engage the other player. You taught me that.”

“Jeremiah, this isn’t a _game!”_ Bruce’s voice rose. “You can’t throw away lives for the things you want.”

“It’s for your own good.” he replied immediately, unruffled. Bruce shook his head.

“No. You’ve convinced yourself that this has everything to do with _me,_ but we both know that’s not true. It never was. All this…” he glanced around, taking in the sight of the pristine arrangement of the study, “all this was for _your_ benefit. It was what _you_ wanted.”

Jeremiah’s stare faltered. “It’s not…”

“Because you couldn’t accept that I’ve rejected who you’ve become. It’s a fantasy you’ve trapped yourself in, and you’re too scared to look past it. All you’re doing is trying to justify what you’ve done by putting it on _me,_ but it’s you, Jeremiah. It’s all you.”

“No.”

“I’m not wrong.” Bruce watched his former friend fumble for some sort of reasoning before resorting to a wordless glare in his direction. “I’m not.”

There had been a time when he wished he was.

_Not anymore._

_He knows it’s the truth._

_We both know._

Jeremiah stared at him, fury practically radiating off him as they watched each other silently, and Bruce wondered if this was going to provoke him into detonating the bombs. Strangely, he found he wasn’t afraid of that prospect. He only wished the others in the room hadn’t been caught up in all this.

But he wasn’t afraid of what Jeremiah might do.

Bruce knew he himself had the upper hand. 

Because _he_ wasn’t afraid to face reality.

“I think,” Jeremiah said frostily, as if Bruce had insulted him, “we should continue with our evening.” He stood up, fixing his tie. “Wouldn’t want to inaccurately replicate anything, would we?”

As he straightened off the lapels of his suit jacket, one gloved hand brushed against the playing card still tucked into his pocket. For a moment, Jervis Tetch’s words whispered themselves back to him.

Warning him of himself.

Of what might happen.

Jeremiah ignored it. 

_This isn’t the time to back down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

“Who else was involved in this?” Bruce’s voice felt unnaturally loud in the echoing silence of the manor halls. The lights were still switched off, casting long shadows across the ground. He stared ahead with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the silhouettes of his faux parents who strode leisurely down the hall in front of him. 

Jeremiah looked slightly irritated at the question, but answered smoothly, “Only a few others.”

“Jervis Tetch.” Bruce hazarded a guess, and Jeremiah nodded curtly. It was evident he didn’t want to talk about the others who had helped with his plan. “And Jonathan Crane?”

“Yes.”

“They worked with Jero…with your brother.”

“I know.” 

They were both silent, Bruce turning his head to study his former friend’s face. Jeremiah didn’t meet his eyes.

“You know what this means.”

Jeremiah’s gaze narrowed and Bruce saw tension build in his shoulders. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’ve made it so he never really died.” Bruce didn’t mince his words. He wasn’t going to spare Jeremiah’s feelings anymore, and if he would resort to comparing him to Jerome, then he would.

He only subconsciously realized that part of him was doing it out of an effort to force Jeremiah back to his old self.

Force him to realize what he’d done.

But that was only in the back of his mind.

Jeremiah stopped abruptly, and Bruce followed suit. Alfred and the others continued on, disappearing around the corner. 

“That isn’t true.”

“You don’t want it to be.”

“It’s not.” Jeremiah insisted, eyes flashing. “I encountered them purely by _chance_.” 

Even Bruce knew that was a lie.

But he also knew Jeremiah was so entrenched within that lie that any amount of discussion wouldn’t drag him out.

No comparisons to Jerome would make any difference now.

They had moved beyond that.

“And Ecco?” he continued, watching Jeremiah’s face carefully. “Was she involved in this too?”

The latter nodded. “Of course.”

“She was innocent. You shouldn’t have dragged her along with you.”

“She wanted to join me.” he said coldly. “I didn’t make her do anything.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Bruce muttered. 

“Why?” Jeremiah asked sharply, his gaze darting swiftly to Bruce’s face as he searched for the unspoken answer to his question. _Why is he so fixated on everything but the things I want him to be?_

_Why won’t he just play along?_

“Because,” Bruce returned his gaze unrelentingly, and Jeremiah resisted the urge to back away at the intensity of his dark-eyed stare, “you are manipulative and selfish, and you don't care what happens to anyone else as long as you get what you want.”

Jeremiah stared at him. The silence was crushing.

Bruce didn't look away.

_No._ Jeremiah felt like his chest was closing up, every breath shallow and forced. _No, that’s a lie._ He _wasn’t_ manipulative, he wasn’t like that, he never had been.

“It’s true, and you know it.” Bruce persisted, and Jeremiah dragged his gaze back to hid friend’s face, studying his eyes almost desperately. Searching for a glimpse of sympathy that he had always relied on being there. Something to drag him out of the void of panic he so often found himself slipping into. Panic, and fear, and _doubt…_

_Don’t._

Every beat of his heart felt like an anvil crushing his chest.

_You are in control._

_No one else._

Composure swept across his face again.

_Just you._

“It doesn't matter whether it's true or not.” he said finally, continuing down the hall. Bruce had no choice but to follow. “Only the results matter. How many times must I repeat myself on the subject?”

“You can’t kill those people, Jeremiah.” Bruce switched back to the original topic of their conversation. Jeremiah gave him a disinterested glance. “They’re innocent, and they don’t deserve to be bought into your delusional schemes.”

“First of all,” Jeremiah retorted, “there is nothing delusional about any of this. We both know reality is what you make of it. You’ve always _thought_ you could protect Gotham, but who’s to say that’s realistic in any way? It’s ridiculous to believe you can singlehandedly save the people of an entire city when the need arises, and yet you still let yourself believe it. You’ll always continue to believe it, if I know you. Reality is simply a construct of what we _need_ it to be."

"And you _need_ to kill those people?” Bruce shot back. “You’re so desperate to be noticed that you’ll resort to murder?”

“It’s not about being noticed.” Jeremiah said shortly, eyes darkening. “It’s about making things the way they need to be.”

“But why? How is doing the one thing I will never approve of going to _connect_ us, as you keep saying? It doesn’t make sense, Jeremiah.”

“It makes perfect sense. You’ll understand soon enough.”

“So you’re talking in riddles now?” Bruce was growing more irate by the minute, more desperate to put a stop to this madness before it was too late. “Jeremiah, don’t you see? You’ve destroyed every opportunity to keep any sort of connection between us. What we used to have,” he began walking faster, stepping in front of his companion to make Jeremiah look him in the eye, “was what you wanted. But you’ve ruined that, too.” Jeremiah stopped, narrowing his eyes. 

“Are you trying to convince me to stop this?”

Bruce began to answer, then hesitated. Conflict ran across his face, and Jeremiah watched him silently, waiting for his response.

“No.” he said finally, shaking his head slowly. “No, I’m not trying to convince you.”

Jeremiah, who had been prepared to continue arguing the point for as long as was needed, hadn’t expected such a final answer and was somewhat taken aback. “Oh.”

“I know it won’t make a difference.” Bruce continued, resignation showing clearly on his face as he turned away. “It’s too late for that.”

“So you’ll accept the truth.” Jeremiah followed him hurriedly.

“I won’t waste my breath trying to change your mind. I’ve tried to convince you time and time again, and it’s never made a difference. And it won’t now. You think this is all a big game, some sort of story you’re trying to be a part of, because you won’t stop searching for the connection you yourself have broken. But rest assured,” he glanced back at Jeremiah, and there was nothing familiar in his expression at all, not even a glimpse of the Bruce that used to exist, “I won’t play along.”

\+ + + + + + + + +

Ecco paced back and forth with nervous energy on the catwalk in the dimly lit chemical plant, the almost fluorescent light of the chemicals churning in open vats reflecting in her dark eyes as she watched the workers swarming about below. But she didn’t really care what they did, and her mind was far from monitoring their progress.

Besides, they were nearly finished here, anyway.

The fireworks were almost ready to be loaded onto the truck, and then everything would be ready. The final step to her job, the last piece of the puzzle that had slowly been built over the course of the past months. And yet, Ecco still couldn’t quite see the full picture. She didn’t understand it, no matter how confident Jeremiah seemed in his endeavors, or how specific each of his goals seemed to be.

She didn’t know what he was trying to do.

Or maybe, she admitted to herself, she simply didn’t _want_ to see it. 

The air in the factory was stifling, tinged with the acrid smell of the chemicals all around, the constant murmur of the workers’ voices filling her head. Ecco leaned against the railing of the catwalk, then pulled back sharply when she felt the thin metal rattle unsteadily beneath her grasp. She stared down at the exposed containers filled with the newly-manufactured acid beneath her and shuddered, mentally chastising herself for allowing her thoughts to inhibit her own safety precautions. 

_You can’t mess anything up now._

A faint motion by the entryway of the room caught her eye, and Ecco’s gaze narrowed as she watched two shadowy figures emerge from the darkness. A jolt of concern rushed through her when she recognized their faces, and she felt for the pistol at her side as she ran lightly across the catwalk and descended the stairs silently. 

_You’re not gonna spoil our plan._

A thought occurred to her, and Ecco froze, gun still in hand, as a smile spread across her face. The two figures were now making their way through the crowd of workers, who continued to load the fireworks without paying any attention to the newcomers. Ecco followed them, eyes glittering with inspiration. 

Still silent, she picked up the baseball bat she’d brought along with her as a weapon. Jeremiah had given her a vaguely disapproving look when she’d shown it to him the first time, almost as if he didn’t know _why_ he didn't like her having it, but Ecco had decided that, as long as he didn’t outright say anything against it, she would keep it. And now it would come in handier than ever…if she could just get this right, he would _surely_ appreciate everything she’d done for him, wouldn’t he? She’d show him…she’d prove herself, even if the only thing that mattered to him was this plan that seemed to consume every thought that crossed his mind.

Ecco hoisted the bat experimentally in one hand, then cleared her throat. One of the figures spun around, and the other followed suit a moment later. They stared at her, but before they could speak, Ecco grinned at them.

“Jim Gordon.” She tilted her head, the bat slung over her shoulder, pistol held firmly in the other hand. “What a nice surprise.”

The police captain stepped back. “You—”

“And…oh, don’t tell me…” Ecco closed one eye, thinking hard. “Lee! Lee Thompkins. Yes, I know who you are.” Her smile grew, and they stared at her uneasily. “You have no _idea_ how wonderful it is to see you both.”

“Look, you need to—” Gordon started, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, and Ecco rolled her eyes, grip tightening on her weapon as she inched closer.

“Enough talk, cop boy. We’d better hurry if we don’t wanna miss the main event.”

\+ + + + + + + + + +

“Recognize these?” Jeremiah smiled over Martha Wayne’s—or the woman who looked like Martha Wayne—shoulder as he picked up the strand of pearls from the wooden box they had been nestled in. Bruce, standing on the opposite side of the kitchen table, blinking in the late afternoon light that streamed through the windows across his face, frowned.

“You know there’s no point in going through all this anymore.”

Jeremiah ignored him, passing the necklace to the man who looked like Thomas Wayne and crossing the room to stand alongside Bruce. “You know, I haven’t been in this house in a long while.” He looked around with all the deliberation of a real estate agent sizing up the place, eyes flitting to and from each detail of the room as if he was trying to memorize every last piece of information he could gather. Bruce watched him wordlessly. “I nearly forgot what it was like.”

“Cutting it off from the city by blowing the bridges didn’t help much with that.” Bruce said disparagingly. 

“Oh, don’t dwell on the negatives, Bruce.” Jeremiah gave him a look that was almost angry. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and you’re threatening to destroy it if I don’t go along with what you want.”

“You know,” Jeremiah patted the pocket holding the detonator before leaning on his wrists against the kitchen table, his eyes never leaving Bruce’s face, “I think, in the end, I’ll destroy it anyway. Too many…” there was something indescribable and pained in his expression for a moment, and Bruce thought he nearly looked like the old Jeremiah, back before all this had happened, “…too many memories.”

“You’d blow up _my_ home because of your own memories?”

“Well, yes.” Jeremiah looked at him calmly, clearly not seeing an issue with such a declaration. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Bruce’s attention had been arrested by the string of pearls, now draped across his mother’s— _no, just a stranger—_ neck, and the memory of those same pearls scattering across the muddy pavement in the darkness of that night he would never forget replayed itself over and over again in his head. For a moment, he’d forgotten the topic of the strained conversation between himself and Jeremiah, but he forced himself to return to it with as much resolve as he could muster.

“I doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“I thought you weren’t going to argue with me.”

“I won’t,” Bruce’s expression didn’t change, “but you have to admit the things you’re saying are insane.”

Without warning, Jeremiah pulled a pistol out from where it had been hidden beneath his jacket, and aimed it at the old television in the corner of the kitchen. The shot echoed suddenly in the silence, and Bruce jumped, startled. The trio of hypnotized people, including Alfred, didn’t move. 

“What—”

“Three years ago, there was a news report on that television.” Jeremiah picked up a piece of glass that had skittered across the floor, examining it before placing it carefully on the table. “Only a little while after I had first come here. You remember it, don’t you, Bruce? The first time I saw Jerome after I left the circus.” There was no emotion in his voice when he said his brother’s name. For all Bruce could tell, he might have been speaking about a stranger. 

“Yes, I remember.” He tried not to look as shaken as he felt. The sudden gunshot reminded him all too much of the impending reenactment of the worst night of his life he knew was coming. One he couldn’t figure out how to stop. His mind was churning with feverish half-plans, trying to formulate some sort of way to keep Jeremiah from killing _them_ , those innocent people, if he couldn’t convince him to stop on his own. But there was nothing he could think of.

“And now it’s gone.” Jeremiah smiled, nodding toward the smoking remnants of the shattered television. “Destroyed.”

“So? That doesn’t erase what happened.” Bruce thought he would feel badly for saying something like that, for bringing up at time he knew Jeremiah hated to talk or even think about, but strangely, he felt nothing. 

Nothing at all.

That was almost worse.

“No, but it makes me feel better.” There was laughter clinging to the edges of his words, and Bruce bit down hard on his lip, tasting blood. “You see? Reality is only what you want it to be.”

“What do you want from me?” He felt as if he had asked that question in countless forms, over and over again, but he had to keep trying. Had to find some way to put a halt to this insanity. Before any more innocents were killed, before he lost anyone who mattered to him, and before…

Before he found himself ensnared in it as well.

“You know what I want.” Jeremiah looked momentarily displeased, but it was gone in an instant. “And you’ve refused to give it to me.” 

“We can’t be connected if you allow yourself to turn into a murderer.”

“But I’ll get what I want one way or another.” he continued as if he hadn’t heard. “You don’t want to accept the family I’ve tried to give you,” his gaze strayed to the others in the room, “so we’ll simply have to attempt another method.”

“I know. You're going to kill them.” _Try to, at least._ Bruce lifted his chin. _But I’ll stop you. I have to stop you._

He didn’t feel confident at all.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t makes sense.”

“It’s the _only_ thing that makes sense!” Jeremiah almost shouted at him, his entire body tensing as his silver-grey eyes flashed dangerously. Bruce stepped back, watching warily to see if the other would detonate the bombs. Fortunately, the remote remained safely in Jeremiah’s jacket pocket. But the anger still smoldered in his expression. “You can deny it as much as you want, but you know it’s the truth! It’s impossible to negate, Bruce. It’s _impossible.”_

“You—”

“Because they’re the _same._ They’re the same, Bruce. It’s taken me my whole life to realize it, but it’s true. It’s true, and completely obvious. The only reason no one wants to admit it is because they’re _cowards.”_

“What are you talking about?” Bruce tried to keep his voice low, not wanting to provoke Jeremiah further. He was feeling increasingly helpless throughout this entire situation, and he didn’t know what to do. He couldn't even begin to create a plan. “What are the same?”

Jeremiah turned back to him, still gripping the edge of the table. Bruce could see the unnatural pallor of his face, the strain in his eyes, and remembered how everyone had thought his former friend had been dead after Selina’s attack. There was no question that if Bruce attempted to take him down right now, he would succeed. 

For a moment, he considered it.

He could stop this.

_You have to stop it._

But there was still a faint whisper of doubt that something would go wrong. That Jeremiah would somehow get the upper hand, even if Bruce could overpower him. He had come this far, hadn’t he? And even if he had barely survived the things that had happened—Bruce still didn’t like to think about Selina’s murder attempt, it only made things worse—he was still here. Bruce gritted his teeth in frustration.

_He’s forcing you to play this game._

_Trying to break down your mind._

And the worst part was, Bruce knew he was succeeding.

Jeremiah was still looking steadily at him, and when he finally spoke, Bruce almost forgot he had asked a question in the first place.

“Hatred,” the other boy said quietly, the words nearly hypnotic in their tone, and Bruce felt like the air was being ripped from his lungs, “and love. In the end, there’s no difference.” He paused, straightening up and drawing a long breath. “They was never a difference.”

Bruce stared back, unable to say anything. 

_He’s truly gone insane._

He’d known that all along, of course, but now it was the _only_ thing he could think about.

_And I…_

Bruce shuddered.

_Did I…_

_Did I help drive him to it?_

All the guilt, all the doubt came crashing back without warning, and Bruce shut his eyes for a moment. Everything he had finally persuaded himself _wasn’t_ his fault had returned to his consciousness, sharp and accusatory and cutting too close to home to completely discredit.

Because a part of him still believed this was all his fault.

He couldn’t explain _why,_ not in any cohesive way, but he couldn’t help but believe it.

_I was the only family he ever had, and when he lost me…_

_No, not lost. He pushed me away. Pushed us all away._

_But why? What did I do?_

A part of him knew this had been a long time coming. It knew that, no matter what he tried to do, no matter what he could have done, it wouldn’t have made a difference.

But he _hated_ that answer.

_You were the only person who ever really cared about him._

_His family._

_And you were the only one who let him down._

_Somehow, you let him down._

Bruce couldn’t even begin to count the times he’d neglected his friend. When they’d needed each other the most. It had been his fault, _his fault,_ and now this…

This was every consequence coming back in full force.

_Of_ course _he thinks that love and hate are the only options._

_That they’re the same._

“Jeremiah…” What could he say? He was too late. He’d been too late for a long time. Much too long. There was no chance of going back now. He knew that already…Jeremiah couldn’t be persuaded to stop, and Bruce knew he could never again sympathize with his friend _(no, he only used to be your friend.)_

Understand, yes, but not sympathize.

Not after everything Jeremiah had done.

Things had gone too far for that anymore. 

_Gone too far, and whose fault is that?_

“So it doesn’t really matter.” Jeremiah was saying with cold calmness. He put away the pistol he still held in his hand and motioned for the fake Waynes to come join him. They did, and he ushered them to the door, waiting until they were nearly out of sight to turn back to Bruce. “If one way doesn’t work, I’ll always have the other.”

“Don’t do this.” Bruce hated being reduced to nothing but empty pleading, but there was nothing else to say.

“I thought you weren't going to try and convince me to stop.” Jeremiah arched one eyebrow.

“No, I…”

“We’re leaving now.” he interrupted, producing the detonator from his pocket and flipping open the safety cap. His finger hovered over the trigger as his eyes never left Bruce. “And if you want to get out alive, I suggest you don’t dawdle.”

“Jeremiah, you don't have to destroy all this just to get what you want.” It was a bare-faced lie, and Bruce knew that now. He understood what Jeremiah wanted, and this was exactly it.

_There’s no convincing him anymore._

But he still had to try.

“No, I do.” Jeremiah replied quietly. “How else will we be connected, Bruce? I tried to take the reasonable route, but you _just wouldn't listen.”_ Despite his controlled tone, fury sparked in his eyes. “Stubborn.”

“Jeremiah…”

“I gave you everything you could have wanted, and you wouldn’t accept it. A family, a chance to have everything you _need,_ a _purpose._ But you just refused it all. So consider all offers void.” Jeremiah backed toward the doorway. “That doesn’t change anything, though. This is still the day of your life that will change everything, because that’s what it was the first time around. _This_ time is simply the next step. The _final_ step.”

“Don’t—”

“I know what you want to be.” Jeremiah’s eyes seemed to be staring straight into him now. “I’ve always known, ever since you told me. You want to protect Gotham. You want a reason to _exist,_ and you think that, if you’re a _hero,_ you’ll be satisfied.”

“What does that have to do with all this?” Bruce heard the tremor in his own voice and clenched his hands into fists.

“I have learned, Bruce, that in order to know who you really are, you have to evolve.” Jeremiah smiled at him. “You learned what you wanted to be the night your parents were killed. You knew what you _had_ to be. This is your chance to _become_ that person, Bruce.” His smile grew wider. “To fight back against whoever stole away everything that ever mattered to you. Isn’t that what you need? Don’t you need that fight?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

They both knew it was true.

“So you see,” Jeremiah looked at him intently, like a scientist inspecting a specimen, “you _have_ to hate me. And I know you want to. It’s the only way you can become who you’re meant to be.”

Bruce kept staring at him, unable to say a single word. 

Unable to _think._

All he could do was hear the words the other spoke and wish they weren’t so painfully, achingly _true._

Jeremiah gave him one final look, letting the silence linger for a moment, then pressed the button on the detonator with a resolute expression on his face. Bruce tensed.

“You have about ninety seconds to get out.” Jeremiah told him, tossing the detonator carelessly to the side. It clattered on the floor, so loud in the heavy silence that it was nearly deafening. Bruce jumped, startled. “You know where to find me. Where to find _us.”_

“Jeremiah.” The word caught in his throat, and Bruce wondered why he’s said it. It was too late for negotiations, too late for apologies (and he wouldn’t apologize, because even if he felt like this was his fault, he couldn’t let himself admit that, not now, not to Jeremiah), and too late to say anything that really mattered. 

_Too late to turn back._

“Don’t be late, Bruce.” Jeremiah turned away, smile still in place. “We couldn’t continue the evening without you.” He ran one gloved hand over the doorframe, and Bruce saw him hesitate, then turn back for a moment. There was something desperate and fierce in his eyes, practically begging Bruce to follow him wherever he led, and Bruce could see the utter madness that lurked beneath the facade he’d put on for the rest of the world. 

It was there, just waiting for the moment to strike. 

Waiting to break free.

Still, Jeremiah’s voice was as calm as ever when he spoke. Calm, but it was impossible to ignore the threat that hung heavily in every word that broke the silence between them.

“If you’re so determined to be the hero, this is your chance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm drawing the Ace Chemicals ep stuff out really long, but it's such a good episode and such a pivotal part of Jeremiah and Bruce's story that I didn't want to rush it and shove everything into one chapter...I promise the action will pick up the pace in the next chapter, though! ;)
> 
> Feedback is always super appreciated <3
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

“You've done a wonderful job so far.” Jeremiah clasped his hands behind his back and circled the silent couple that stared blankly ahead, like a shark cutting off its prey. “Really, you should congratulate yourselves. In more ways than one, because you have been a _very_ big part of creating what might be the most important facet of this city to ever exist.” Neither of them spoke, or prompted him to continue, but Jeremiah paused for effect anyway, a smile creeping across his face. “The one thing Gotham has been missing, all these years. And what _Bruce Wayne_ has been missing.” He paused to take out the pistol he carried, and took a few steps back. “Ra’s al Ghul was, I admit, right. To some extent, at least. They,” he gestured with the gun to the city streets behind him, only visible through the entrance of the alleyway they stood in, “need him. We all do.”

He raised the pistol, waiting for some sort of protest from the hypnotized pair, but none came. _Of course not, they don’t know what’s happening._ Even after Ecco’s hurried call to tell him she had gotten her hands on Gordon and Thompkins—how they had found their way to Ace Chemicals, Jeremiah didn’t want to think about, because that meant he would have to kill some negligent guards, and he was too busy for that right now—he wasn’t sure if he should include them in his plan. After all, he had worked so hard to create perfect likenesses of the Waynes, hoping that he truly could recreate the night that had begun to make Bruce who he was supposed to become.

But he also knew Bruce felt no connection to these strangers aside from an obligation to try and keep them alive.

They didn’t _matter_ to him.

An unwanted thought crossed his mind.

_Just like you…_

Jeremiah shook his head, pushing the words away. He didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity now…he had a job to do. And if it involved changing the script around a little in order to truly produce the effect he wanted, then that was fine.

He could adapt.

Captain Gordon and Lee Thompkins were _someone_ to Bruce. He cared about them, and to see them die in front of him, just as his parents had done five years ago…Jeremiah was certain that _had_ to do the trick. Bruce would _thoroughly_ hate him for that, and there would be no denying it.

The thought made him smile.

It was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

Close enough, anyway.

_Just…changed around a little bit._

But in the end, it would still be the same. He’d learned that, hadn’t he? Who cared _what_ it was that would drive Bruce to never let him go, if the outcome was the same? He didn’t mind hatred, if that was all he could convince his friend to give.

No, he didn’t mind it at all.

_Back to the job._ His attention snapped back to the present, and he unlocked the safety on the pistol, tilting his head to get one final look at the masterpieces he’d created. It was a shame to lose them so early on in the game, but it would be so much more _effective_ to substitute them for people Bruce actually cared about. 

Because _that_ was the thing that would decide the direction all this would go.

What would push Bruce to see who he needed to become.

And Jeremiah would do whatever it took to show him that.

_Whatever_ it took.

He felt in his pocket for the strand of pearls he’d retrieved when Ecco had called him with her news. He didn't want such an important detail—everything was an important detail at this point, especially when it all had to be such an accurate duplicate of that night—to be lost. 

The sound of a truck pulling up in front of the alley entrance caused him to look over his shoulder, and he saw Ecco leaning out the front window, nodding to the back to indicate she had the new set of hostages. Jeremiah smiled at her.

_This is going to work, Bruce._

He didn’t even hear the gunshot when he pulled the trigger, and barely glanced at the figures crumpled on the ground, blood pooling on the pavement. He had nearly forgotten they were actual people until then…up to this point, they had seemed more like figurines to be dressed up and placed here and there to complete the story.

Simple pawns in the game.

He looked dismissively down at their still bodies, then turned back to Ecco, who had climbed out of the truck and was ushering the thoroughly-hypnotized Jim Gordon and Leslie Thompkins from the back. Jeremiah pocketed the gun and left the alley entrance to join her.

“No one knows they’re here?” He fastened the pearls around the medical examiner’s throat.

“No one.” Ecco threw a mock salute, her face beaming as she searched his expression for approval. “After Tetch did a little number on them with his magic skills—”

“Hypnotism.” Jeremiah corrected her with a sigh.

“Yeah. I knew that, I just—” She seemed to deflate a little, but perked up again a moment later. “After that, it was a piece of cake to get them here.”

“Good.” Jeremiah motioned for them to follow him, then turned back to Ecco. “Oh, could you see to cleaning up those two,” he nodded at the bodies on the ground, “and disposing of them somewhere out of sight? Wouldn’t want to ruin the ambiance of a crime scene with two already-dead bodies.” His laughter echoed off the walls of the alley.

"Of course." she replied, knowing he probably didn’t hear her, or wouldn’t pay attention. _Not even a word of thanks? Not one?_ Well, it didn't matter. Once all this was over, she would finally be able to win back his attention again. 

_As if you ever held it in the first place._

Her shoulders slumped.

“Ecco,” Jeremiah called over his shoulder, and she looked up sharply, unable to suppress the flash of hope in her eyes. “I assume you have the… _fireworks_ with you, right?”

She nodded. “Everything’s here and in place.” 

“And the workers?”

“Gone home. Every one of them. No memory of anything they did. Tetch wanted to kill ‘em, but I said that’d be too much mess to clean up, you know? Anyway, Ace is all cleared out…well, except the leftover chemicals.” She shrugged. “But we can get rid of those tomorrow.” _When this is over. If it ever will be._

“Bruce will be here soon, assuming he managed to get out of the manor.” From his tone, it was clear Jeremiah had no doubts on his friend’s ability to escape. “ _Hopefully_ alone, but if he brings the butler along with him, I’m giving you permission to kill him.” His eyes glittered dangerously.

_No one can stand in the way._

_And if they try, they’ll be dead._

_Because this is for Bruce, it's for_ us, _and nothing can go wrong now. It's all come to this, and everything has to go according to plan._

_Everything._

Ecco nodded dutifully, tapping a hand against the holstered pistol at her side. “Will do.”

\+ + + + + + + + +

“Alfred!” Bruce sucked in a sharp breath and almost choked on the dust-filled air that clouded his senses. The lanterns in the tunnel swayed precariously, some of them toppling over and flickering out after being smothered by debris, and without the illumination they provided, it was growing increasingly dark.

He heard the deep rumble of the manor collapsing to the ground above him, felt the shuddering of the roof as tightly packed dirt began to crumble above his head.

He wondered if he would be crushed to death in the darkness here, and if the last thing he ever would have done was fail to convince Jeremiah to not kill the hostages he’d taken.

Failed to save their lives.

_You can’t—_

Bruce ducked his head, keeping his eyes nearly closed to block out most of the dust as he searched with increasing franticness for Alfred. He had grabbed the butler and dragged him along into the tunnel just moments before the bombs began to go off, and had lost his grip on him when everything began to collapse around them. Bruce had no other option but to keep going, trying to escape as far into the tunnel as possible, and could only hope Alfred was somewhere close behind.

He didn’t dare to let himself think what would happen if he lost…

_If you never see him again…_

“No.” he whispered, his voice rasping in his throat. _No, that’s not gonna happen._

_You’ll get out of here, you’ll both get out of here…_

_You have to._

_To stop him._

Every motion felt heavy, as if his limbs were weighed down, and Bruce fought the urge to give in to unconsciousness as the air grew more gritty and there was even less oxygen than before. He was _going to get out,_ he _would,_ and no one would die as long as he had a say in it…

His eye caught a stray glimpse of motion and he straightened up, ignoring the debris that fell into his eyes, catching in his eyelashes and streaking his face with dirt and grime. “Alfred.” His voice was little more than a whisper now, but his movements were swift and purposeful as he clambered through the collapsing tunnel, his hand latching around the butler’s arm just as a boulder from the ceiling came crashing down right where he had been standing half a second before. Bruce glanced back, his lips drawn into a tight line, then directed his attention back to his companion.

“Master Bruce!” The butler’s voice rose above the chaos around them, and Bruce could see from the clarity shining in his eyes that he was free of the hypnosis. Breathing a sigh of relief, he nodded wordlessly for the man to follow him, and together, they made their way through the remains of the tunnel that continued to shake and shudder as the walls barely continued to stand with the pressure of the manor falling to pieces above them.

Finally, after what felt like hours of thinking this was the end, this was the moment everything would come crashing down and they would suffocate in the darkness without any hope of finding a way out, Bruce noticed a faint light gleaming in the far distance. His eyes widening with tense hope, he and Alfred doubled their pace, staggering out of the tunnel entrance mere moments before it was obliterated by falling debris. 

Coughing harshly to clear the dust from his lungs, Bruce stared at the destroyed tunnel, then turned to Alfred. The butler looked furious, glaring at the hole in the wall as if it was at fault for their situation. 

“When I get my hands on that pasty son of a bitch, rest assured, I’m going to—”

“Bruce?”

Alfred broke off abruptly when a new voice spoke, and they both turned to see Selina—along with a very confused Oswald Cobblepot—staring at them. Bruce stepped back.

“What’re you doing here?”

“We—” she faltered, her voice trailing off, and she didn’t hold his gaze. “I should ask _you_ that first. What happened?”

He shook his head, adjusting the armored jacket from Lucius Fox he was wearing. “I can’t. I’ve got to go after Jeremiah.”

Selina froze, her hand closing over the whip at her side, the other feeling instinctively for her knife that wasn’t there. She kept staring at Bruce, her face a conflict between doubt of what she had heard and sheer horror.

“ _What?”_

Bruce swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry. “I have to go, Selina.”

“No, you’re going to answer my question.” She caught ahold of his sleeve, dragging him closer and studying his face almost desperately. “Tell me what you just said.”

Bruce’s mouth twisted to the side and his eyes shone with regret. 

Uncertainty.

_Hatred._

But, Selina realized, it wasn’t toward her. 

“Jeremiah’s alive.” His voice was toneless. “He’s been alive all this time.”

She backed away, but her hand was still firmly entwined in his sleeve. “That’s not true.”

“Selina—”

“I saw him _die.”_ Her voice broke. “We…Bruce, we both saw it! You were _there!_ There is not way in the world…”

“I’m sorry.” Neither of them knew what he was apologizing for. Gently, he disentangled himself from her grasp. Selina didn’t protest. Her eyes were wide and unbelieving—she wouldn’t _let_ herself believe it yet—and she didn’t seem able to give voice to even one thought. “Selina, I’m sorry, but I have to leave. I have to find him. He’s going to kill them.”

No one even questioned what he meant by _them…_ the resolve was so strong in Bruce’s dark eyes that they knew it was better to simply let him go. Oswald, watching from the sidelines of the conversation, finally spoke up.

“So the tunnel is destroyed?”

“Everything’s gone, mate.” Alfred said curtly, brushing the debris from his jacket. “The bastard set off a bloody _bomb_ in the manor, and there’s little hope that even a _scrap_ of the place is still standing.” He turned to Bruce. “You’re going after him, then?”

Bruce nodded. “Yes.”

“Right, then you take him down.” Alfred looked at him intently, the boy he’d come to think of as his son, whom he had spent his entire life protecting, and he knew there was no stopping Bruce from this. It was the only thing he could do, the only thing he _would_ do, and one way or another, he would keep going until Jeremiah had been stopped.

Alfred decided there was no point in trying to restrain him in the first place.

“Stick to your code,” he continued, and Bruce looked him square in the eyes, nodding at each word, “but you show him. Show him that no one tries to get the better of Bruce Wayne, eh?”

Bruce gave him a tight smile, standing up straighter. “Okay.” He turned back to Selina for a brief moment, and she kept staring at him, her eyes empty and unable to put together the pieces of information she was hearing. “Monarch Theater.” he said quietly, and she shook her head, trying to clear it of the confusion.

“What?”

“That’s where I’ll be.” He backed away, further into the shadows, and Selina took a step after him before stopping again, her hands shaking. “That’s where we’ll both be.”

Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

\+ + + + + + + +

Jeremiah glanced down to see the bloodstain spreading across his torso, and wondered why it had taken him so long to realize that fact. Some of the stitches from the stab wounds had come undone with the exertion of the day’s events, and he hadn't even registered the fact until he was forced to notice it.

It he had been his _old_ self (he didn’t like to think of that time, of what a coward he had been) he would have panicked, maybe even given up the entire plan. So entrenched in self-preservation that everything would have fallen to the wayside and it would have been _ruined._ How pathetic he used to be, Jeremiah thought, his lip curling in distaste at the memory of his previous self. Pathetic, and so easily _beaten._

Back then, no one would ever have remembered him. He would have faded to oblivion, his worst fear, and the only name to be associated with him would have been Jerome’s. 

Because back then, he had cared too much. But now…

Now…

It didn’t matter.

He smiled.

_If Jerome could just see who you’ve become._

The smile turned cold.

_He'd see you’re invincible._

Because nothing could stop him as long as he was intent on his goal. Nothing, and no one. 

True, he could be all but dying of blood loss and not know it. He was fully aware of the fact, and it didn’t scare him. Because it was merely a sign of how far he’d come. Who he’d evolved into.

_Someone stronger than they ever even imagined was possible._

_Someone who can stand up to Bruce Wayne over and over._

_Again and again._

_Because that’s what_ he _needs._

He knew that nothing, not even death, would stop that now.

Jeremiah turned his attention back to the two hypnotized figures who stood motionless in the alley, their eyes blank and staring at nothing. Slowly, he paced back and forth in front of them, studying every detail that came to his attention. The pearls gleamed in the moonlight, and he wondered what Bruce would think when he saw them scattered once again across the floor of the alley. 

He hoped it would be enough to get his friend to hate him for good.

_Oh, don’t worry._

He drew a long breath, ignoring the twinge of sharp pain beneath his ribs. 

_He will._

Gordon and Thompkins didn’t say a word, and Jeremiah smiled at them, leaning against the alley wall casually and examining the pistol he held in his hand again. If Bruce had managed to escape the destruction of the manor, he would be here at any minute. The very thought made him shiver with excitement…it was finally time to show him the truth.

And Bruce would understand.

_He will, he will, he will…_

“I wasn’t able to kill you before.” He addressed Gordon suddenly, and the man didn’t even blink to acknowledge him. That didn’t faze Jeremiah in the least. “You know, back in the underground maze.” That day seemed like an eternity ago, now. He had been so naive, so optimistic. As if it would take no convincing at all for Bruce to join him. Thinking his friend would unquestioningly follow him, thinking there would be no need for a more… _intensive_ form of persuasion…

His hand tightened around the gun.

Well, _now_ he knew better.

And there was no point dwelling on the mistakes of the past.

“It was a bit surprising, I’ll admit.” He stared down at the gun contemplatively. “Although I can’t say I’m _impressed_ you escaped. It was simply blind luck, of course. We both know that.” He wasn’t sure why he was still talking to Gordon, when he knew full well the police captain wouldn’t retain anything Jeremiah was saying in his hypnotized state. But then, did there have to be a reason for everything he did? Did he really have to justify his every action? “Still, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Considering that you die in the end either way.” 

He wondered if he was nervous. If that could be the reason for his rambling. _No, you’re not. Don’t be ridiculous._

From a block away, he heard the low rumble of the truck’s engine, and wondered if Ecco would remember her instructions to activate the fireworks. Of course she would, she had never failed him before. And she wouldn’t now, no one would, _nothing would go wrong…_

Jeremiah wished he’d remembered to bring a watch, or at least ask Ecco for the time while she had still been here. It felt like hours he’d been waiting for Bruce, but there was no telling if that was accurate. Aimlessly, he glanced up at the dark night sky as if that would answer his question.

“He’s going to be late for the main event.” he muttered to himself, not even realizing he’d spoken the words aloud. “Don’t you know that’s _rude,_ Bruce, you should show _some_ gratitude at least…”

A stifled laugh caught in his throat.

_You don’t want to miss it._

_After all, you’ve got the best seat in the house._

_Not to mention a starring role…_

Fastidiously, Jeremiah brushed his hands over his jacket, although it was already spotless. His nerves felt like they were balancing on a knife’s edge, ready to tip off either way at a moment’s notice. 

_Both of us do._

Without any warning, his mind flashed back to a deeply-buried memory. One he’d thought was long-forgotten, lost to time and a methodical process of trying to omit any sort of recollection of back then, back to a life he could barely remember living.

Erratically blinking lights, flashing dizzily around the perimeter of the multi-colored tent…a tangled mess of tightropes and platforms and spotlights dangling from the ceiling like some monstrous black spiderweb, casting shadows across the sawdust-strew floor…a hushed voice breaking the heavy silence as he stood in the middle of the ring, staring at the chaos with disapproving eyes behind the round glasses that were too big for his face.

And the voice that was speaking…

Was it his?

Jeremiah shut his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to remember or trying to forget.

Maybe, somehow, it was both.

_“Would ya look at that.”_

No, not his voice.

He felt a hand grasping his own, too tightly. Dragging him into the spotlight that someone had forgotten to turn off. How he had hesitated, murmuring that they… _they?…_ should stay in the shadows, they would be caught, they’d get in trouble…

_“Oh, shut up, Miah. No one’s gonna find us.”_

Now Jeremiah was _certain_ it wasn’t his own voice he was remembering.

Oddly enough, he wasn’t frightened.

_Of course you aren’t. He’s dead. What harm would a memory do?_

Funny how he had all but forgotten about Jerome until now.

As if he had never existed.

_“Jerome, we shouldn’t—”_

_“Would you quit it?” Jerome shoved his brother, who shoved him back in turn with one hand, adjusting his glasses with the other. “Hey, watch this!” He raced off to the ladder that led up to one of the platforms the trapeze artists used in their act, and Jeremiah followed, disapproval written across his small face._

_“You’re going to get in so—”_

_“—much trouble, I_ know. _” Jerome interrupted, grinning over his shoulder as he scaled the ladder in the blink of an eye, with all the grace and skill he’d been able to cultivate within his seven years of life. Jeremiah crossed his arms and sat down in the middle of the ring, arranging the sawdust into patterns and shapes on the ground as he sighed, purposefully loud enough for his brother to hear._

_Hey, Miah, look at this!” Jerome’s voice echoed in the empty circus tent, and Jeremiah looked up, sawdust slipping through his fingers. He blinked as a blindingly bright light flashed directly into his face, and glared with half-closed eyes up at Jerome, who grinned back. “You’re the star—”_

“—of the show.” Jeremiah finished under his breath, reality rushing back without warning. 

He glanced back at Gordon and Thompkins, and turned the gun over in his hand.

“I told you it would come to this. One way or another.” He was looking in their direction, but his words weren’t for them. 

_I told you, Bruce._

_I told you._

He thought he might laugh if he had a bit less self-restraint.

He wasn’t sure why.

_“Stop it, Jerome.”_

_“Why? Don’t you wanna be famous?” His brother wrapped his skinny arms around the spotlight, jostling the direction of the beam as he stared down at Jeremiah._

_“No, I don’t.”_

He looked up as a faint sound disturbed the heavy silence of the alley.

Footsteps.

Coming closer and closer, and although he couldn’t see who they belonged to, he could practically hear the determination with which they approached.

_I knew you’d come._

His head spun and he felt almost giddy with anticipation. He cleared his throat, casting one final look over the two hypnotized figures behind him to ensure everything was in place. 

_No matter what he does, you will win._

_Because this is what he’s always needed. You’re giving him what he needs._

_It’s all for him._

Jerome’s laughter echoed in his mind.

_“Don’t lie, broski. You know the truth.”_

_Jeremiah gave him a frosty look. “I’m not lying.”_

_Jerome kept the spotlight trained on him. His twin didn’t move. Didn’t back away. “You want them to see you, Miah.” His voice was quieter than usual, although still not difficult to hear in the silence of the empty tent. Besides, Jerome had never been good at gauging what was deemed an acceptable level of volume when he spoke…Jeremiah always told him he was too loud, but he never listened._

_He didn’t think about that now, though. “What?”_

_“You don’t_ want _to hide.” Jerome rested his chin on the edge of the light that was nearly as tall as him, never breaking eye contact with his brother, who scuffed one foot against the ground almost guiltily at his words. “You never have.”_

_“Jerome—”_

_“Nonono, I’m talking.” He bounced up and down impatiently, and Jeremiah sighed. “Anyway, what’s so bad about this, huh? Dontcha want everyone to remember you?” He giggled, deepening his voice as low as he could make it, imitating the ringmaster who announced each act when the circus shows began every night. “Introducing…” he waved a hand in front of the spotlight beam, making it flash like a strobe light, “the world’s funniest clown, Jeremiah Valeska!” He drew out the name for a full three seconds, and Jeremiah couldn’t help cracking a smile, fixing the glasses that sat askew on his nose._

_“You’re the one who makes the jokes. You should be the clown, Jerome.”_

_“Yeah, and you’re my twin, so that makes you one too!”_

_“I don’t want to be a clown.” he protested, and Jerome rolled his eyes, stepping away from the spotlight._

_“Whatever.” He began clambering back down the ladder, and Jeremiah watched him carefully, wondering if he should try to catch him if he fell. As if that would do any good. “But don’t lie to me.”_

_Jeremiah’s smile disappeared. “I wasn’t lying…”_

_Was he?_

The footsteps were closer now. 

The alley seemed darker than ever. Shadows loomed up all around them. Jeremiah didn’t bother to ensure they were alone…no one would dare venture out in this city after dark. Not now, after everything he had done to it.

Because _he_ had changed Gotham.

And everyone knew it.

The smile faltered on his lips.

_Don’t you want everyone to remember you?_

He tried to push the memory away. He hadn’t minded it at first…hadn't cared. It meant nothing to him anymore, none of his memories about Jerome mattered. Because Jerome was dead. 

_You’re the only one left._

_And they’ll remember_ you…

He gripped the gun so tightly that he felt the blood flow cut off on the ends of his fingertips. The metal was warm beneath his hand, reassuring. Reminding him that _he_ was in power, _he_ was in charge. He would show Bruce what he needed.

Because this _was_ what Bruce needed.

What the both of them needed.

_And you need to be remembered._

_You know that, don’t you?_

His brother’s laughter grew louder, and Jeremiah let the smile fall from his face. For now, anyway. If he calculated correctly, there was still a few seconds left for him to gather his thoughts.

Before Bruce arrived.

_I wasn’t lying._

He drew in a deep breath, standing up straighter. 

_I’m not lying._

_“Just face it, Miah.” Jerome jumped from the second to last rung onto the ground, looking his twin square in the eye. “It’s who you are.”_

_Who you…_

“Jeremiah!” The voice cut through the air like a blade, tinged with desperation and anger. Jeremiah’s gaze snapped up to the entrance of the alley, and his entire body tensed, waiting.

_Bruce._

He realized he couldn’t speak.

_“It is. I know it is. Because it’s not just you.” Jerome didn’t break eye contact. Jeremiah couldn’t look away. “It’s both of us.” He crept closer, steps muffled by the sawdust. The lights kept flickering overhead. “It’s who_ we _are. You and me.”_

Something close to anxiety filled his eyes as the memory persisted. Even as he wanted it to go away. Why wouldn’t it leave? Wasn’t he in the one in control?

_“Because we’re the same.”_

Jeremiah’s breath caught in his throat.

The memory of the circus was fading, but he could still see Jerome. Standing there in front of him, smiling, watching him, holding the gun…

_“I want you to admit the truth about yourself.”_

Jeremiah remembered how afraid that memory used to make him. How he’d burned with resentment for everything his brother had been. Everything he had done.

_Broken you down._

_“That I’m…like you?”_

_Made you see the truth._

_About yourself._

Oh, but that hadn’t been just Jerome.

_“Exactly. It’s only fair, you know.”_

He stared down the barrel of the gun. No, that wasn’t right, was it? _He_ was the one holding the gun, right now, he was holding it now, that was only a memory…

_“But it’s…it’s not true.”_

He had always known, hadn’t he? Jerome had only seen part of the picture. He’d only seen what he _wanted_ to see. 

He’d never realized that Jeremiah was so much more.

More than his brother ever would be. More than he ever had been.

Because _this…_ this was only just beginning.

_“What are we, Jeremiah?”_

His heartbeat felt too loud in the silence.

_What are we?_

He wasn’t looking at Jerome anymore. His twin wasn’t there, had he ever been there in the first place? Now the memory had changed, it had altered somehow, and the eyes that met his own were darker, filled with rage and betrayal and _regret._

Not Jerome’s eyes.

Never Jerome’s.

_Bruce._

Jeremiah remembered the nightmare he’d had long ago. How those same eyes had watched him wordlessly as he’d struggled to figure out what he’d done…what _had_ he done? He still didn’t know…when he’d tried to explain himself to Bruce but couldn’t because he didn’t know how.

He remembered how he had fallen.

_Is this the edge?_

_For both of us?_

It was Bruce’s face, and the voice he heard now was Bruce’s too. Jerome’s words, true, but Jeremiah barely acknowledged that. 

_“What are we?”_

He heard his own voice now, echoing in his thoughts, so different from who he was now, who he had become.

How much _greater_ he had become.

_“The same.”_ But he wasn’t talking to Jerome, and he wasn’t pleading for his life, he wasn’t catering to the wishes of his insane twin who had thought of nothing beyond driving Jeremiah as mad as him. This time, he didn’t sound afraid, he didn’t sound resentful.

Because he knew it was the truth. 

It was the truth, and it wasn’t about Jerome.

Because the only memory he could see now was _Bruce._

_“You and me, we’re the same.”_

“Jeremiah!” The voice was closer now, so close, so _very_ close, and he watched the entrance of the alley steadily, waiting for the barest of movements, a telltale shadow, something to indicate that Bruce would be there.

And finally, he would learn. His best friend in all the world, the only person who had ever truly been there for him, the only person who could never leave him because _they needed each other,_ no matter how that had to be—because after all, hate and love were the same thing, they always had been—would learn the truth.

“It’s who we are.” His voice was barely audible, even in the stillness of the alley, but there was no more doubt to weaken its resolve. No more uncertainty, and no more fear.

Jerome was gone, but that didn’t matter, because Jeremiah didn’t _need_ him. He never had, and he never would. If Jerome had never existed in the first place, it would have felt the same. The remnants of any memories containing him were slipping away, overtaken by memories that Jeremiah _wanted_ to remember, memories that slowly but surely pieced together a reality he wanted to exist, a reality that _did_ exist, because he had created it, he was a _part_ of it, and no matter what anyone said, it was impossible to deny.

He smiled again, and this time, there was nothing forced about it at all. 

His eyes still shone in the shadows of the alley, but something dark had crept into them, dark and ruthless and no longer trying to forge a mask of sanity _._

Jerome…

Jerome had been insane.

He remembered _that_. More clearly than anything else about his brother, he remembered that.

But it didn’t matter.

Jerome didn’t matter. Jeremiah didn’t care about him anymore. 

Because _now…_

Now, he had Bruce.

His heart leapt in his chest with an intensity that was nearly painful when he saw the silhouette of his friend appear, stopping short when he saw the three figures standing in the alley. He ventured closer, and Jeremiah smiled at him, lifting the gun to point it toward the other boy’s chest. Effective, but only a warning, of course.

He would never kill his best friend.

His own _family._

The only family he’d ever had.

“That’s far enough, Bruce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the flashbacks and everything in that last part weren't too confusing to follow...let me know in the comments what you think! :) Hope you liked it, and thanks for reading!!


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's angst o'clock

**Chapter Twenty**

Selina scaled the rusted fire escape effortlessly, pulling herself up over the edge of the rooftop and landing in a crouch amid the chimneys and water tank. Blinking through the heavy smoke that filled her vision and burned in her throat, she eyed the dark outline of the abandoned theater in the distance. 

_He wants you there._

_He needs you._

She didn’t want to be here. She’d made up her mind to leave Gotham, to escape the memories that wouldn’t leave her alone, wouldn’t let her rest. And when Selina was resolute on a matter, nothing could persuade her otherwise. 

But her only chance of getting off the island was gone. And Bruce had asked her to be here. She’d seen it in his eyes. After letting him down over and over again, disappointing him at every turn, she needed a chance for redemption.

_If you can’t escape Gotham, then you have to reconcile with him for good._

Selina gritted her teeth in frustration at her own worry. She knew her guilt was completely one-sided. She knew Bruce had better things to worry about rather than whether or not she was a murderer. 

Her eyes darkened.

_Well, you’re not a murderer now._

_Even if you intended to be._

It was nearly impossible to believe Jeremiah was alive. Selina had been so certain that she’d succeeded in her revenge…after all, she’d been willing to jeopardize her relationship with Bruce, her own safety, _everything,_ just to show that _freak_ that he wouldn’t get away free for what he’d done to her. 

_But it didn’t work._

_You didn’t kill him._

Strangely, she wasn’t relieved at the thought.

Selina drew in a long breath, ignoring how heavy the air had grown with the smoke, and tried to organize her muddled thoughts. Everything was blurring into a confusing mess of emotions she could barely control, and she hated it. _You have to be stronger than your own mind. For now, at least._

_For him._

Because Bruce needed her.

Her mind flashed back to the night she had stood in nearly this same place, five years ago. So much younger, so unsure of herself. She remembered how she had watched in horrified silence as a masked man gunned down two of Gotham’s elite, leaving behind a little boy who didn’t notice her, so caught up in the shock of seeing his parents killed in front of him. 

How she hadn’t done anything.

_Anything._

_This is your chance to change that._

She straightened up, her steps light and measured as she began running across the rooftop. The air was cooler up here than it was on the streets, and although she felt the grime from the smoke enveloping her face, it helped clear her head. Helped her _focus._ She had a job to do, had to help Bruce however she could, and that was all. That was all she needed to know. She could worry about escaping Gotham later, worry about what her friend thought of her, if he considered her irredeemable for killing— _intending_ to kill—Jeremiah Valeska.

Instinctively, her hand wrapped around the whip at her side. Her steps slowed as she neared the edge of the roof, measuring the distance of the gap between the two buildings before propelling herself into a leap. Landing on the opposite rooftop, she paused for a moment, listening for voices in the nighttime silence. This was the theater, the Monarch, fallen into dilapidation after being put out of business several years ago. The windows were boarded up, and stray newspapers and litter fluttered across the ground in front of the box office, cracked decorative lightbulbs framing the ticket window. In the distance, a little ways behind it, smokestacks rose up from the old Ace Chemicals plant. When the theater had been built, it was balanced along the unspoken line between the part of town where socialites resided, and the Narrows. Ace was an ugly indication of that, rising up above the penthouse buildings as a glaring reminder of the squalor that lived just beyond the world of the elite. 

But that wasn’t important now. Selina decided to focus on the theater, and nothing more.

_They must be here._

_“Jeremiah!”_ Her eyes widened as Bruce’s voice broke through the stifling quiet, and she stepped cautiously onto the unstable fire escape, hoping the added weight wouldn’t make too much noise. Luckily, the metal contraption remained motionless and silent, and Selina began creeping down it, her gaze alert as the sight of four unidentifiable figures began to emerge from the darkness.

She held her breath, listening.

Waiting.

Hoping that this time, she could help Bruce before it was too late.

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

“You know this isn’t your only option.” Bruce kept his hands raised in submission as Jeremiah continued to point the gun in his direction. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“Would you _stop_ it?” Jeremiah’s voice rose in exasperation, and Bruce took a cautious step back. “Stop trying to deny this. You’ve imprisoned yourself in this… _delusion_ that you can get what you want on your own. And it’s a lie.”

“You are the only one with delusions.” Bruce said quietly. “I understand why you don’t want to admit it.” Jeremiah gave him a look that was a cross between fury and disdain. And something else, but Bruce couldn’t figure out what it was. “And I understand why you want to do this.”

“No, you don’t.” There was a new edge to his voice, something unrestrained and savage. Bruce could see it in his eyes too, and wondered if he had said too much. If he had said the wrong thing. 

But then, wasn’t _everything_ he said the wrong thing?

His jaw tightened as all the hatred, all the anger toward the boy who used to be his friend came rushing back. 

_He’s doing all this to break you down._

“You don’t understand, Bruce.” Jeremiah repeated, holding onto the gun so tightly it looked as though he thought someone would try and take it from him. “And you don’t understand that this is _all your fault.”_ There was something like eagerness in his eyes now, as if he was waiting for something. As if he knew what sort of effect his words would have on his companion.

Bruce’s eyes darkened.

_Your fault._

He had done this.

_Your responsibility._

He had brought them to this. Not him alone, but he had been a part of it. Simply being Jeremiah’s friend had set him up for condemnation, from the very beginning. _That_ was what had sealed their fates, what had, over the years, led to this moment. Because he had been _there._

Because he could have stopped this.

He had known it would happen someday, deep down, and he didn’t stop it.

_Your fault._

How would he have stopped it?

_It doesn’t matter. It’s still your fault._

“I’m not denying it.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and Jeremiah’s expression turned to confusion. “I’ve never denied that.”

“Denied _what?”_ the other snapped, as if he had forgotten his own words a moment before. 

“That I helped cause this.” He gestured around vaguely, his movements careful in case Jeremiah decided to shoot. “I helped…” His words died off as he searched for the proper meaning of what he wanted to tell Jeremiah. He had meant to say “I helped destroy you,” but that wasn’t right. He hadn’t done that.

What he had done…

It was almost worse.

“I let you fall.” he said finally, and he noticed the way Jeremiah’s grip on the pistol faltered at that, and he stared at Bruce as if he was expecting him to say more. “I watched you destroy yourself, and I was too late to help you.”

Had he been too late?

Had there ever been a chance to save his friend in the first place?

It was the same cycle, repeating itself over and over again in his head. The same thoughts that insisted on coming back every minute of every day, fighting to get the better of him. Guilt, then resignation. Following one another without reprise. Bruce wasn’t sure which one was stronger.

Which one he believed.

Maybe it was a bit of both.

He looked back up at Jeremiah, who hadn’t stopped staring at him. “But you were the one who chose to let go.” he finished, finally voicing the thought that had been holding the majority of his guilt at bay ever since this had all began. “You didn’t want me to try and bring you back.”

Jeremiah didn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes boring into Bruce’s, then a smile began to creep across his face. Bruce remembered Jerome, remembered _his_ constant smile, the maddening laughter that never seemed to end, and he almost wished Jeremiah was the same. But there was something more dangerous, something even _more_ unhinged in his former friend’s expression, simmering beneath the outer calm. 

Like a snake waiting to strike.

“Of course I didn’t.” Jeremiah finally spoke, his words quiet and measured. He lowered the gun, but Bruce didn’t dare to come any closer. “And you didn’t want to, either.”

Bruce frowned. “All I _ever_ wanted was for you to go back to who you used to be.”

“Then you were never really my _friend_!” Jeremiah’s voice shot up suddenly, and his expression became instantly furious. In the blink of an eye, he had lost every attempt at serenity, and now Bruce could see the madness inside rising to the surface. It was so unlike Jeremiah…

No, that wasn’t right, it was so unlike the Jeremiah that used to exist, before he had been killed and replaced with _this._

There was nothing left to indicate that anything but from this new version of him had ever existed. And Bruce hated him, hated him more than anything else in the world, because that self-destruction had stolen away his best friend. 

He didn't even seem like the same person anymore.

He _wasn’t_.

It was terrifying and…

And _heartbreaking._

Bruce swallowed hard, his lungs constricting in his chest. He had been so sure that he’d mastered the ability to distance himself from any emotion regarding this entire situation, but he was wrong. There was too much weight to every word between them, too much meaning in every action. Because they both still _remembered,_ they remembered the past—it was barely in the past, only a matter of months since this nightmare began, but it felt like centuries—and Bruce couldn’t ignore that.

How could he ever hope to forget who they used to be?

It only made his hatred to Jeremiah grow. But it wasn’t pure hate, it wasn’t clean-cut and focused, the way he wanted it to be. It was _painful,_ like an infected wound being torn open over and over again, because he wasn’t fighting a stranger, he wasn’t fighting an enemy.

_But that’s what he has to be._

“I _was_ your friend.” Bruce’s voice nearly wavered for a moment, and he caught his breath before he betrayed his thoughts. “I always was, Jeremiah. And I did want you to come back.”

Why did it matter what he said?

Did he really think he could change anything, anymore?

Jeremiah narrowed his eyes. “That’s a lie. You didn’t care, because if you really did, you would have realized how we both _needed_ this. There was never any alternative for us, Bruce, it was always going to end this way.” He paused, taking a step forward. “And when it does end, then we can begin something _new_.”

“I know you’ve convinced yourself of that.” Bruce said slowly, trying to avoid any further risk of angering Jeremiah. He was here for one reason, and one reason only. Arguing about the past wouldn’t solve anything. _Remembering_ the past would only hurt more. “But that means it’s between us. Just you and me.” Jeremiah’s eyes lit up at that, painfully hopeful. He looked like a child, eager to please, and not at all like a murderous lunatic.Bruce’s chest felt heavy, and he clenched his hands into fists. “No one else needs to be involved, so let them go.” He pointed to the couple behind Jeremiah, shrouded in the shadows. Their backs were turned to him, but he could still see the outlines of their figures in the darkness. “Let them go, and you and I will settle this alone.”

“No.” Jeremiah straightened up abruptly, wincing slightly, and Bruce noticed what looked like blood staining the dark shirt he was wearing beneath the jacket. He realized again it hadn’t been long since Selina’s attack, and he knew right away that he would undoubtedly gain the upper hand in a fight between the two of them. _You have the chance to stop him before he kills them._

_So take it, stop stalling for time. What do you think waiting around will accomplish?_

_You know you can defeat him._

But for some reason, he couldn’t move.

He wanted to think it was something as simple as indecision. Perhaps hesitation, thinking Jeremiah would be able to shoot him before he could make a move. Or worry that he would somehow risk the lives of the innocent couple involved in all this.

He wished it was even one of those things.

But he knew it wasn’t. 

It was this _place,_ the memories that overwhelmed everything else in his mind, the terrible similarities this very moment held to that night five years ago. The deeply-embedded terror that Bruce had never been able to fully repress, the way he could still remember, with a clarity that burned at his mind, the way his parents had looked, bleeding out on the alley floor. How the masked man had simply turned and left, as easily as that, and how much raw _hatred_ had welled up in Bruce in that moment, how he’d wanted to run after that man and break _him,_ because he deserved it, that was what justice was, wasn’t it, and Bruce cared about…

He swallowed hard, realizing how badly his hands were shaking.

_Don’t let him do this to you._

“I know what you’re trying to do.” He forced his voice to remain steady. Jeremiah watched him silently. “You’re so desperate for some sort of human connection that you would resort to making me hate you, and you think you can do that by mimicking the day my parents died.” He paused, taking a breath. “It won’t work. You won’t convince me that this is anything like what happened then.”

“But it _is.”_ Jeremiah said with complete certainty. “It’s exactly the same as that day, Bruce, and that means you won’t stop me from killing them. It’s how it has to be.” He shrugged. “Sorry.” His venomous smile contradicted the apology.

“They’re strangers, Jeremiah. Not my parents. You can’t truly believe that killing them will make a difference.”

“Oh.” Jeremiah’s smile suddenly widened, an almost feral eagerness sparking in his eyes. He looked like a wild animal on the verge of ripping its prey to pieces, yet oddly restrained as well. His two natures, fighting against one another in a never-ending battle. Combined, they created the most dangerous opponent Bruce had ever encountered.

He had known that the first time he’d seen Jeremiah after the attack with Jerome’s insanity gas.

He had known, deep inside, that his former friend would only ever become more dangerous.

“I already killed them.”

Bruce blinked, not realizing for a long moment what Jeremiah was talking about. Then realization dawned on him, and he gave a sharp gasp.

“I killed them long before you arrived here.” Jeremiah grinned at him like he had just heard a joke, and Bruce was at loss for words for a moment. Finally, he pushed through his confusion and forced himself to speak. 

“They’re right there.” He pointed forcefully to the pair, and Jeremiah glanced over his shoulder, following his gaze. “You didn’t kill them, they’re _right there.”_

“Well, you see, Bruce,” he said smoothly, eyes alight with a fire that burned almost desperately, “I already knew you wouldn’t truly care if I shot them in front of you. You’d be angry, perhaps, but you wouldn’t really care. Not enough, anyway.” He held the gun up again. “Because they didn’t matter to you. You didn’t _know_ them, like you knew your parents.”  
Bruce frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Fortune favors the innovative.” His words were punctuated with a sharp laugh. “And I have _just_ the cure to your apathy for these poor, poor innocents.” He snapped his fingers abruptly, and the two figures turned slowly around. 

Their faces came into view. Familiar, startlingly familiar, but not the faces of his parents that Bruce had been expecting. Not the painstakingly identical copies that had nearly convinced him that he truly _had_ gone back in time at first. 

He thought that maybe he was dreaming.

Without thinking, he held his breath, hoping it would force himself to wake up.

He _had_ to be dreaming.

Jeremiah’s laughter broke the sudden silence in the alley, harsh and mockingly triumphant. _Cruel._

More sadistic than Jerome had ever been.

In that moment, Bruce forgot that Jerome had ever existed.

“Maybe you’ll see things a little differently now?” Jeremiah broke off mid-laugh to pose the question, tilting his head as his smile stretched wider. “You continually underestimate me, Bruce.” He paused for a moment, letting the words hang between them as he gestured back at the hypnotized Gordon and Thompkins. Bruce couldn’t stop staring. “But now, you can see for yourself that I am _fully_ your equal. The challenge you need. The adversary you _crave.”_

Bruce couldn’t bear the sight of the blank faces staring at him in the darkness. Jim Gordon, who was just as much a father to him as Alfred was, as his own father had been. And Lee…Jeremiah had dealt a deadly blow, he’d pinpointed the things Bruce truly cared about, he’d realized what it would take for _true,_ burning hatred to set in, enough to fuel a real conflict between them with no end in sight. 

“How?” was all he could think to ask, and Jeremiah gave him a sly smile.

“Fate, I suppose. They happened to get a little too curious about my _project,_ and rather than simply having them killed when they were caught in the act of intruding, I thought they would be just perfect for you, Bruce. Don’t you agree?”

_No. No, no, please, not them. He can’t do this, he can’t, he’s going to…_

“Ingenious, if I do say so myself.” Jeremiah smirked. “They’re hypnotized, of course, but don’t worry. I _greatly_ value authenticity, and you will be able to watch them realize what has happened to them as they choke to death on their own blood. These pearls,” he looped the necklace on the end of the gun, “will hit the ground, as I assume they did on that fateful night so many years ago, and they’ll be _aware,_ Bruce. Aware, just like your mother and father when they _died.”_

“You don’t have to do this.” His voice rasped in his throat when he finally spoke. Jeremiah raised one eyebrow.

“This is the _only_ thing I’ve ever had to do. The only thing that has ever mattered.”

Bruce started forward, and in the blink of an eye, Jeremiah had the gun pressed to Gordon’s temple, his grip on the handle even tighter than before. Bruce froze, his eyes wide and helpless as he tried to figure out what to do.

He _couldn’t_ let Jeremiah kill them.

“If you take one step closer, Bruce, you’re going to quickly regret it.” Bruce turned around, startled, when the sound of an idling truck engine roared to life behind him, and Ecco pulled it up to the alley entrance, leaning out the window. Fireworks were stacked up in the back, heaped haphazardly upon one another, silhouetted sharply in the darkness. “Firstly, because I will not hesitate to kill them,” Jeremiah tapped the barrel of the gun against the side of Jim’s face, “but also because you will jeopardize—no, _condemn—_ the lives of every citizen of Gotham. Those fireworks, which happen to be filled with a toxin not unlike the one that threatened the city a few months ago,” he didn’t even bother name Jerome as the culprit, “will ensure that Gotham is plunged into madness for good.” He hesitated. “Or, _chaos,_ I should say. And I highly doubt the government will want to risk good men to come save a city of lunatics, don't you?”

While Jeremiah was speaking, Bruce noticed a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye, up on the rooftop above. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what it could possibly be…this part of the city was all but abandoned…but then realization swept over him, and something like hope warmed his chest.

_Selina._

He resisted the urge to look up, knowing that could prompt either Jeremiah or Ecco to spot the girl, and any chance of them escaping this situation—not to mention Jim and Lee—would be gone. He only hoped Selina would have the right instincts, and not endanger herself in the process.

Bruce knew her all too well, and he knew that, once she had learned Jeremiah was still alive, she was likely focused solely on taking another chance at revenge against him. This time so he would never come back.

He had no idea that the only reason she was here was to help him _._

In the moment, it didn’t seem to matter either way.

“Okay.” Bruce tried to keep his voice calm. “Okay, listen. Listen to me.” He knew negotiating with Jeremiah was pointless now. But he couldn’t help it. “I understand what you want. I really do.” Did he? Could he really understand any of the insanity that clouded Jeremiah’s once-lucid mind? The thought made his throat feel like it was closing up. “You want to be connected to me.”

“Bruce, if this is another one of those speeches where you tell me there are more ways than hatred to ensure our bond, then save it for someone else.” Jeremiah gave his friend a dead-eyed stare. “I’ve tried those ways, they don’t work. You won’t let them work. _This_ is the only way. And you’ve brought it upon yourself.”

Choking back his anger at the accusation, Bruce shook his head. “It’s not just me who has brought us here. You know that.”

“You were the one who ignored my offers.”

“To destroy the city.”

“To become _rulers.”_ Jeremiah spat, his eyes blazing. “I offered you _everything,_ Bruce, I was willing to tear down the _world_ for you, and you refused!”

“I didn’t want the world.” Bruce said quietly, and he hated that he could feel the threat of tears stinging at each word he spoke. “I never wanted the world.”

“Then what _did_ you want?” he asked sharply, his voice echoing against the high walls of the alley. “What did you want, Bruce? I could have given you anything you ever could have asked for, and you always refused me, so what did you want?”

_What did you want?_

_What do you still want?_

He felt his heart beating much too loud. It _hurt._

_After everything, what is the one thing that you won’t allow yourself to lose hope for? Even if you know it will never exist again? Even if you know it’s not possible for_ any _of it to exist again?_

Bruce drew in a long breath, unable to tear his eyes away from Jeremiah’s, the abject, unabashed longing in the latter’s gaze tearing through the barriers he’d put up for himself. 

That _both_ of them had put up.

_If you only could have realized that I believed in you then._

_If you only could have believed in yourself._

_We could have done so much. Been so much. If you hadn’t broken it all down._ For a moment, he thought he had spoken the thought aloud. He was grateful he hadn’t, it surely would have resulted in the death of the two hypnotized people.

_But you did break it down._

_And you didn’t even realize that you destroyed what I had always really wanted._

“Only you.” he said finally, and Jeremiah’s expression grew wary. Bruce thought maybe he should have stayed silent, refrained from answering the question. This was too risky…not just because he knew it would make Jeremiah angry, but because it was the truth.

And telling the truth ran the risk of vulnerability. Letting down his defenses. But wasn’t that already the case? He was trapped in the alley he’d witnessed his parents die in, the lives of two people he cared deeply about were on the line, and the one person who had been his best friend for _years,_ ever since they were both children, had orchestrated it all. 

He had no defenses left to hide behind.

“It was only ever you.” he repeated, not bothering to suppress the waver in his voice. Jeremiah was staring at him as if he couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth. “The you I used to know. Because you _were_ my family. You were my family, and my best friend.” His hands were clenched so tightly that they had begun to ache. “And that was all I ever wanted.”

His shoulders slumped, and he felt like all the life had been drained out of him. Everything was numb, and he knew it was because he was holding nothing back now. Moreover, he was hiding nothing…he’d told the truth, and there was no way to take it back. 

Jeremiah was silent, still staring at him.

Bruce stared back, waiting. He wasn’t sure what for.

Above them, Selina had noiselessly made her way halfway down the fire escape, and her hand curled around the handle of the whip as she narrowed her eyes at the target below.

Bruce thought that maybe this moment would stretch on forever.

An eternity of torture, as he tried to pull his gaze away from Jeremiah. He didn’t want to think about what he saw in his friend’s— _enemy—_ eyes. He didn’t want to let himself realize what it was.

Derision.

Scorn.

_Confusion._

Jeremiah had become so entrenched in his delusions that he couldn’t even understand the meaning behind Bruce’s words anymore. Couldn’t _believe_ them. Couldn’t let himself believe them, because then he would be forced to realize he’d lost. He’d been made a fool of. Everything he’d done had only served to break down the very bonds he’d been searching for with a vicious intensity.

He only believed what he wanted, now.

“Nice try, Bruce.” Despite the look he wore, there was an edge of something almost like unease lurking in his tone. For the briefest moment, Bruce nearly caught a glimpse of the old Jeremiah, before it was stifled by the monster that had taken over him. 

Bruce still couldn’t bring himself to believe they were truly the same person.

It gave him some comfort, twisted as it was, to allow himself to think that the old Jeremiah had been killed by this new _thing_ that stood in his place, even if he knew it was still him. At least then he couldn’t place blame on the friend he had once known. He could focus his anger on a stranger. 

But although a part of him believed that with desperate intensity, another part had begun to whisper that it wasn’t true.

Jeremiah was still speaking, and Bruce tried to listen. “But you don’t understand. You would have given up on me eventually. You _did_ give up on me. You left me behind, telling me it was _for my own good._ You needed to _protect_ me, because if I was associated with you, who _knew_ what would happen. Well, guess what, Bruce?” His voice shot up again, and now the raw pain and fury took over any semblance of control he’d gathered before. “I didn’t _care_ if I was in danger! I would have risked it…I would have risked it _all_ for you! You were all I ever had, and you pushed me away because _you_ were too afraid of losing me.” He drew a shuddering breath. "But I lost _you!_ I lost you, Bruce.” His words caught on something like a sob.

Bruce felt like he couldn’t breathe properly. “I only wanted to help you.” It was ludicrous, disputing something that seemed so trivial now in the face of everything that had happened. The city was crumbling to pieces around them, dissolving into madness in the anarchy it had fallen into, and they were standing on the brink of something that could drive both of them into endless conflict, with no end in sight. If that gun went off, Bruce knew it would only be the start of everything, all over again.

And yet somehow, they were back to square one.

He felt nothing but _helplessness._

“You never understood, Bruce.” Jeremiah’s voice dropped back down to its normal level, but still shook with unrestrained emotions. Bruce wasn’t sure, but it looked as if tears were shining in the other’s silver eyes. “You never realized that I would do anything for you. I didn’t care what could have happened to me, I didn’t care if a thousand other Galavans dragged us into an endless series of blackmail and lies and deceit and madness…I didn’t _care,_ Bruce, because I had _you,_ and I knew you would always be there. Until you _weren’t.”_

_You weren’t there._

_You pushed him away._

_Because you wanted to protect him! You thought it was the only way to keep him safe, and even if you were wrong, it was with good intentions. You didn’t_ want _to leave him alone, and you both know that._

“That’s not the reason for all this.” Bruce’s voice was steadier now. He had begun to recognize what Jeremiah was doing…playing on his guilt, making him doubt himself. “I will admit that I made that mistake, and I didn’t realize what it did to you. But this…” He caught Jeremiah’s gaze resolutely, forcing himself not to look away. “This has been a long time coming.”

_There. You said it._

_You’ve admitted it._

_You knew all the while that he would go insane. You knew from the very beginning, when he first started to show it. When you tried to help him, because you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. And even though you never let yourself truly believe it, you knew it was true._

_He knew it, too._

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Jeremiah retorted, voice taut with emotion. He was purposefully ignoring Bruce’s last statement, although he had clearly heard it. 

From above him, Selina drew closer. Bruce still didn’t look up…he knew Jeremiah would catch on in an instant. 

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”

“The past is pointless now. We only have the future, and I intend to make the most of it. With _you,_ Bruce, because you will _never leave me again._ I’ve made sure of it.”

_He wants me to hate him. Because that’s all he has left._

_It’s the only way he can ensure I’ll never let him go._

Bruce’s heart twisted, and his mouth narrowed to a thin line.

The worst part was, it had _worked._

_You_ do _hate him._

“It’s for you, Bruce.” Jeremiah said softly, breathing his name like a prayer. Bruce winced. “It’s only ever been for you.” He raised the gun, turning toward the hypnotized couple behind them.

A cry wrenched itself from Bruce’s throat. _“No!”_

Selina moved like a bolt of electricity, the whip cracking in the silence as it unfurled over the edge of the rusty fire escape railing. The end wrapped around the barrel of the gun, and Bruce shut his eyes instinctively when the sound of a shot echoed in the alley, his hands flying up to the sides of his face. His mind collapsed, brimming with memories of being twelve years old and kneeling in the still-warm blood of his parents, staring down at the bright red staining his hands and unable to believe what had happened, unable to accept it, unable to do anything but hate the man who had done this with a burning, aching, _horrible_ hatred. 

_No, please come back, I need you, you can’t die…_

_Please, please don’t die, please…_

_Don’t leave me alone, don’t leave me alone, don’t leave me…_

The sound of the gun clattering to the ground jerked him out of the memory, and Bruce gasped in a harsh breath, reality rushing back to him in a sharp, scalding wave.

He opened his eyes.

Jeremiah was staring up at Selina, who had wrenched the gun from his hand with a tug of the whip, and was standing, poised to strike again, the pistol now firmly gripped in one hand, the other still holding the whip. 

“Selina, _don’t—”_ he managed to breathe before she leapt down from the fire escape, landing between Jim and Lee, leveling the gun at Jeremiah’s face. 

“Say your prayers, freak.” she gritted, and Bruce didn’t feel himself rushing forward, sending a punch flying at Jeremiah’s face as the two of them collapsed to the ground, the shot Selina fired moments later rushing above their heads and burying itself in the door of the truck waiting outside the alley. Ecco, who had been standing there motionless moments before, stared at the puncture in the metal with wide eyes, then leapt into action, grabbing the detonator for the fireworks and flipping the switches as she kept an eye on the five figures in the alley.

“Selina, get the pearls!” Bruce yelled, and Selina, looking momentarily stunned that she had failed yet _another_ time to kill Jeremiah Valeska, nodded, spinning around on her heel and yanking the string of pearls from Lee’s neck. They clattered to the ground, skittering out of sight into the shadows. Jim and Lee blinked, moving for the first time.

Bruce didn’t see it. He was busy sending blow after blow at Jeremiah’s face, pinning the other down beneath him against the alley floor. Jeremiah didn’t even try to fight back, he merely stared up at Bruce with eyes that only closed involuntarily at each punch. Bruce gritted his teeth, anger surging through him, giving him a strange sort of energy that he couldn’t seem to control.

He was interrupted by Selina’s voice. “Bruce, look!” He paused to follow her stare to Ecco, who had finished the detonation sequence and tossed the remote to the side before giving them a wide grin and sprinting off. Bruce noticed her eyes lingered a moment longer on Jeremiah, and a flash of uncertainty had crossed her face, before it was replaced by utter confidence.

Jeremiah took his hesitation as an opportunity, and gave Bruce a shove, pushing him off from on top of him. Bruce fell back against the alley wall, and before he could gather his wits, Jeremiah had staggered to his feet, backing out of the alley as blood and laughter brimmed on his lips. His eyes were burning like embers, an unmistakable exhilaration lighting up his entire face, and for a moment, Bruce almost felt the same thing.

The adrenaline of the moment, the chance to let out the anger that had been seething inside him at every injustice he had encountered in this city.

All the outrage he felt toward Gotham and the people who were intent on turning it into a madhouse, a no man’s land.

Now it had a _face._ And a name. And it was something he could _fight._

And he wanted more.

Jeremiah gave him a crooked bow like some demented magician, still laughing, and turned away, disappearing around the corner of the alley. Bruce started after him, then froze, turning around sharply to survey Jim and Lee worriedly.

“Are you all right?” 

Jim brushed past him, all business. “We’ve got to stop those fireworks.”

Lee followed close behind. “The key’s still in the ignition.”

Bruce hesitated, wanting to help, wanting to be useful. But the intoxicating rush of the moments before still pounded through his bloodstream, and he knew he couldn’t stay. Jim saw the look on his face, and mistaking it for anger at the situation, nodded to the street. 

“Ace Chemicals.” he said, his words clipped. Bruce frowned.

“What?”

“That’s where he’ll be. Ace Chemicals. It’s where we found Ecco and Tetch. And it’s exactly in the direction he was heading.” He nodded to the smokestacks looming up against the city skyline. “He’ll be there.”

“Thanks.” Bruce hesitated for a millisecond, his conscience still berating him for abandoning his friends in this admittedly more time-sensitive task. If the fireworks went off…

But he _had_ to find Jeremiah.

Jim gave him a distracted smile. There was nothing behind it, no happiness, and truth be told, it looked rather bleak. But Bruce understood what it meant well enough.

_You can go._

He turned away, picking up his pace.

_You have to go._

His footsteps pounded against the concrete in time with his heartbeat, and he felt like every breath was burning away his lungs.

_Find him find him find him…._

He turned the corner, stopping short when he saw the entirety of the chemical plant before him, smoke rushing out from the cylinders on the rooftop, the neon green sign _Ace Chemicals_ the only light emitting from the place.

He breathed in deeply, his throat burning from the chemical-tinged air, and started running again.

He knew Jeremiah was waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm dragging the Ace Chemicals stuff out for FOREVER...I actually have as far as the entire rest of the episode written out, but it was just too long to contain it to one chapter, so I have to split it up one more time. I promise y'all will get The Big Showdown in the next chapter tho...it's almost completely written, I just have to finish up some things and then I'll post it too.
> 
> Anywho, thanks for sticking around for the longest retelling of Ace Chemicals ever, and I hope you're enjoying the story! Leave a comment to let me know what you think <3


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think I'm going to spend an entire chapter retelling a two-minute scene from the episode, then you are absolutely right my guys.

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Ecco’s heart was in her throat and her nails dug into her palms as she clenched her hands into tight fists. She kept running, but every step made her question that very decision even more.

_Should you have stayed?_

She knew she could trust Jeremiah to win. He had this planned out so carefully.

_What if he needs you?_

She bit down hard on her lip and winced at the sudden pain, licking the blood off her teeth. Her steps slowed as she got further away from the alley, and she couldn’t resist looking over her should.

As if she would get an answer that way.

_He doesn’t need you._

She felt tears prick her eyes, and didn’t know why.

_He’s never needed you._

Ecco turned away and kept running, a sob catching in her throat as the conflict continued to rage inside her, although she knew there was nothing she could do about it now.

Whatever she did, their fates were already sealed.

All of them were.

They had been for a long time.

\+ + + + + + + +

Bruce pushed open the heavy entrance doors to one of the inner rooms of the chemical plant, wincing as it scraped across the ground with a metallic grating sound. He looked around, still breathing hard, for any sign of movement.

But Jeremiah wasn’t there to hide.

He stood on the end of the catwalk that stretched out precariously above the open vats of almost-luminescent green acid, churning restlessly below like ocean waves, staring down at Bruce with eyes that still burned brightly.

He was holding a switchblade in one hand, but he didn’t make a move to attack. 

Only watched as Bruce drew closer cautiously, blood and lipstick staining his smile dark and wide across his face.

Bruce felt his heart begin to beat faster as his pulse pounded in his ears.

It was _monstrous._

_Monstrous…_

And he was drawn to it. 

He _hated_ it.

_I hate_ you. _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. You destroyed this city. You destroyed us. You destroyed yourself, and you won’t understand that. I wanted to help you, wanted to save you, and you would never listen to me, you never listened to me, and I hate you for that, because I could have saved you. But you wouldn’t let me, and now I blame myself, and I don’t know why because it’s your fault. It’s your fault, Jeremiah. And I hate it._

He hated it.

Loved it.

_Loved what?_

Bruce almost wanted to laugh. He stifled the urge before it rose to his throat, feeling the pressure close over his chest. Maybe he wanted to cry instead. He didn't know. This was all so _absurd._

_Love what?_

_Does it matter?_

He gripped the cold metal railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. His eyes never left Jeremiah, who didn't move. He was clutching at the front of his jacket, which was stained with blood now, and Bruce could see he was breathing heavily, his shoulders taut with exhaustion. But his eyes were as alive as ever. 

His thoughts returned to the question that wouldn’t leave him alone.

_It doesn’t matter._

_They’re the same thing._

“You’re going to use a knife?” His voice reverberated, heavy with accusation, in the warehouse. The sound of the chemicals sloshing in their vats below was the only other thing to break the silence. 

Jeremiah shrugged. “If you would prefer otherwise…” He clicked the blade open, the metal flashing in the faint light, then tossed it over the edge of the rail without even bothering to see where it fell.

Bruce looked down, watching the weapon disappear into the chemicals nearly without a splash.

“I’m going to stop you this time.” His voice was steady now. He didn’t know it, but his eyes were alight with something new, something eager. He _wanted_ this fight. Needed it. Like he needed air to breathe. 

Those final moments in the alley had woken something in him that he didn’t understand. He didn’t think he would ever understand. There was hatred, there was injustice, there was an insatiable desire for…

For _what?_

Bruce mounted the final step. The catwalk rocked beneath his added weight. Jeremiah still didn’t move.

_For what?_

Retaliation for everything this city had done to him? Everything the _criminals_ of this city had done to him?

No, it wasn’t retaliation. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He didn’t want anyone to die.

It was just the opposite.

He wanted to _stop_ them. He wanted to show them what they had done.

Wanted to show _Jeremiah_ what he had done.

Because Jeremiah was the one who had turned this city into anarchy, Jeremiah had been the one to remind Bruce that he hadn’t been able to save the people who he cared most about in the world.

His parents.

_Selina._

Jeremiah had shot Selina, and Bruce hadn’t been able to stop him.

Everyone he’d ever loved…

He couldn’t save them.

_You want vengeance._

Bruce’s eyes met Jeremiah’s, and the latter smiled slowly, as if he had read Bruce’s thoughts. As if he had known about them long before Bruce had ever brought them into existence. As if he knew Bruce better than he knew himself.

Bruce’s jaw tensed.

_I hate you._

_You’re going to pay._

Jeremiah fumbled with something in his lapel pocket, then produced what Bruce thought was a small square of paper. He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer carefully, holding his breath.

“Looks like the joke’s on you, Bruce.” 

“What—”

He saw now that it was a playing card. A joker. Grinning at him in the exact same way Jeremiah was, mocking him.

Goading him into action.

Knowing Bruce _wanted_ to act.

_You both need…_

“I won.” Jeremiah said softly. Triumphantly. He flicked his wrist, and the card spun through the air, landing at Bruce’s feet. “I gave you what you needed.”

“You didn’t give me anything.”

“Don’t lie to yourself.” He leaned against the rail, his breathing still ragged. Dark bruises were gathering around his eyes, and, coupled with the blood on his face, he nearly unrecognizable from who he used to be. Until now, Bruce had always been able to detect at least a hint of his old friend, but now it was like he was looking at a stranger.

He knew better, though.

“You can say whatever you like.” he replied, taking step after careful step until he stood in the middle of the catwalk. They were nearly within arm’s reach of one another now, and Jeremiah made no indication that he would be the first to attack. “It won’t matter, because this is the end.”

“The end?” Jeremiah echoed incredulously, straightening up to his full height. He flexed his hands, hidden beneath the purple gloves he wore, and tilted his head to crack his neck. Bruce could practically feel the excitement radiating off of him. “ _Bruce._ You know that’s not true.” He finally moved then, took a step toward Bruce, who tensed, preparing himself for the first move. “This is only the beginning.”

_No. This can’t go on. We can’t do this forever._

He trued to repress the flutter of exhilaration that flared up in his chest at the thought.

_You don’t want to fight him forever._

_You want this to end._

_For good._

Bruce set his face intently. He was in control now. He could manage that adrenaline rush that came with the prospect of being locked in an eternal struggle with the only enemy dangerous enough to challenge him over and over again. He could push it away—or at least reign it in—and he could remember the resolve that lay beneath that passing fantasy.

Because that was all it was. A ridiculous notion most likely spurred on by the confusion of the day. He wasn’t thinking clearly. 

_You don’t_ want _to fight him._

Bruce almost believed it now.

_You want to end this tonight._

And he _would._

“What are you waiting for, Bruce?” Jeremiah hissed, letting go of the railing. “Do you want some _motivation?_ Some _reason,_ maybe? As if I haven’t given you plenty already?”

“I have reason enough.” 

If that was true, why couldn’t he move?

Why couldn’t he land the first blow?

Bruce swallowed hard. He felt like he was rooted to the ground, held back by his confused feelings. He wasn’t sure what was happening in his own head…it was as if his thoughts were fighting one another, fusing together until the truth became unrecognizable.

He didn’t know what he believed.

He only knew he had to end this, but he couldn’t make himself do it.

“I have _plenty_ of reasons.” he repeated, this time to reassure himself. Jeremiah looked irritated.

“Those fireworks will force this city to tear itself apart. Everyone will lose their minds, Bruce. Everyone you’ve ever loved, going mad in front of you.” His eyes gleamed. “Killing one another until there is no one else. _No one._ You’ll be alone.”

The words repeated themselves over and over again in Bruce’s head.

_You’ll be alone._

He knew Jeremiah was using those threats to spur him into action. Because to the latter, being alone was the greatest threat he could ever create. His own worst fear. And now he was dragging Bruce into it.

_Don’t let him control you._

_Do this the right way._

He _wanted_ to fight. Wanted to so badly that his entire body ached. Part of him whispered that he thought he could get the real Jeremiah to come back that way. _Force_ him back. 

_This is the real Jeremiah._

Bruce tried to not let the claims he was hearing get to him.

_Don’t provoke him._

“Everyone you’ve ever loved.” Jeremiah repeated, his voice rising. “ _Everyone,_ Bruce. I’m going to kill them all.” His grin stretched wider. “Jim Gordon, Lee Thompkins. Alfred.” His eyes narrowed. “Selina.”

Something snapped in Bruce’s chest and he sprang forward, his hands latching onto Jeremiah’s lapels and slamming him to the ground on his back. Without giving the other a chance to retaliate, he began delivering a series of punches at his already-battered face, breathing quickly and harshly and silently.

He said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

Jeremiah choked on a mouthful of blood, the sound dissolving into hysteric giggles, even as he struggled to breathe. Bruce gritted his teeth and raised his fist again, but a hand wrapped itself around his wrist and he was suddenly dragged down, smacking his head on the side of the railing.

His sight reeling at the sudden blow, Bruce faltered for a moment, giving Jeremiah the chance to regain his footing. Dashing away the blood pouring from his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, he waited for Bruce to get back up.

“ _Now_ you see it, don’t you?” His voice trembled with exhilaration. Bruce glared at him, but stayed silent. “You know you’ve needed this. You’ve always needed this.” He spread his arms wide, swaying in place as if he could barely stay standing. “You’ve needed _me.”_

Bruce growled wordlessly, charging at him, and Jeremiah was shoved back against the unstable railing. This time, however, he managed to get in a few body blows before Bruce was punching him again, and the former had begun to breathe heavily. 

He knew he had to control his anger if he wanted to win this fight.

Because although he would normally have unquestionably beaten his opponent in hand-to-hand combat, this was different.

Jeremiah had a _purpose._

“You’ve needed me, Bruce!” His laughter grated in Bruce’s ears, and he sent a blow flying directly at the other’s mouth to shut him up. Jeremiah spat blood in his face, and Bruce reeled back in disgust, wiping it away with the backs of his hands. “Don’t fight it.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Just fight _me.”_

“Gladly.” Bruce muttered, his own eyes flaming with rage by now. The image of Gotham falling into insanity was seared into his mind, and it sparked an anger hidden deep within him. A protectiveness for the city itself, the city he loved beneath its crime and squalor and webs of deceit. 

The city Jeremiah was intent on destroying.

And the people who lived in it.

Yet, as he threw himself back into the fight, his thoughts were screaming at him, _Don’t, don’t do this, this is what he wants from you. He wants you to see him, wants you to notice him, he wants you to_ need _him, Bruce, and you’re showing him that he’s right. You’re showing him that he’s been right all along._

_Don’t let him see the truth._

The truth? Bruce nearly scoffed, dodging a badly-aimed blow at his face. If anyone knew the truth, it wasn’t Jeremiah. He was lost in his own illusions of what he wanted, he didn’t understand a thing about Bruce or what either of them needed.

_But to him, this is the truth._

_And you can’t let him think you believe it._

_If you do, you’ll lose._

Bruce didn’t want to think anymore about it. He didn’t want to think about anything. 

Because he knew he really was lying to himself now. He’d been lying for a long time.

_You need him you need him you need him you need him…_

_No._

The adrenaline was back, rushing through his veins like fire. Bruce was focused now, wholly intent on taking Jeremiah down. He had to, for Gotham, and for himself. This had to be the end, tonight, because if it went on any longer, he knew he might start admitting things he didn’t want to.

_That you need each other…_

_No!_

Jeremiah somehow managed to struggle back to his feet again, and backed a few steps away, nearly doubled over but still standing. He tilted his head to look up at Bruce, who shuddered. “I never knew you danced so well, Bruce.”

“This isn’t a dance.” he spat, and Jeremiah chuckled.

“Oh, Bruce, no _imagination.”_ He ran one gloved hand through his blood-matted hair, which Bruce knew had been dyed green but looked black in the dim light. His silver eyes gleamed in the darkness, too.

Bruce remembered when those same eyes had been full of warmth and admiration, hidden behind glasses and holding a million secrets he didn’t want to keep.

_Jeremiah Valeska._

_Xander Wilde._

_Alone in the world. Twin to the city’s most dangerous criminal. Innocent victim of circumstance. Guilty of killing his own brother._

_Always a living paradox._

Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to think of that friend who used to exist as a liar.

_But he was, wasn’t he?_

Had Bruce ever truly known who he was?

_“Why can’t you give me a chance? I can try to help you, at least.”_

He saw those eyes again, pleading and desperate and intent on keeping those secrets no matter what it took.

_“I’m sorry.”_

Bruce stared at Jeremiah silently, and for a split second neither of them moved.

_I’m sorry._

_“I just wish you’d let me help you.”_

Too late now.

_You need to end this now. However you can. No matter what it takes. This has to be over for good. It’s gone on for far too long, and if you keep going it will destroy you._

Bruce already knew what he had to do.

He only hoped he could convince the both of them that it was the truth.

Without warning, he darted forward, knocking Jeremiah to the ground again and punching him again and again where he knew Selina had stabbed him in the torso. Jeremiah involuntarily curled up on his side, trying to shield himself from the blows that they both knew could be deadly if Bruce kept this up. He was trembling, too, sweat mixing with the blood trickling down his face, and Bruce knew he would lose consciousness in a matter of moments. 

He resisted the urge to close his eyes, and raised his fist for the knockout blow.

_It’s over._

A choked laugh stopped him.

Jeremiah was staring up at him through hazy eyes, looking at Bruce in exactly the same way he had when Bruce had finally rescued him from Theo Galavan all those years ago. There was the exact same unbridled adoration, but that wasn’t what made him pause.

It was the _trust_ that he saw.

_He’s always trusted you._

Bruce thought maybe his heart would beat out of his chest.

_Always trusted that you’ll do what’s right._

_Or what he thinks is right._

He kept his fist raised.

_No, not right._

_What he thinks we_ need _._

Jeremiah laughed again, licking blood from the corners of his mouth as he let his head loll back against the metal of the catwalk. He looked oddly content, although Bruce chalked that up to being on the verge of unconsciousness. That was all it _could_ be. All it had to be.

“You feel it.” His voice was little more than a croak, rasping in the back of his throat, but Bruce heard him clearly enough. He reached up a faltering hand and dragged it across the side of Bruce’s face. Bruce flinched away, glaring. Jeremiah kept smiling at him. “The connection between us.” he clarified, as if they didn’t both already know what he meant.

_No._

_No connection._

Bruce hit him again.

Jeremiah kept staring at him.

He was laughing in earnest now, and life had sprung back to his eyes with an eerie tenacity. Bruce had the feeling that it would be impossible to render him unconscious now.

_Well, you can still try._

“Oh, you _do!”_ Jeremiah giggled delightedly, twining his gloved hand around Bruce’s wrist for an instant before Bruce wrenched it away. “Don’t you?” It wasn’t really a question…they both knew it was true. But Bruce wasn’t going to admit it.

They both knew that too.

_You don’t have to let it be true._

_You can make the truth whatever you want it to be. You don’t have to let him control you. He doesn’t have power over you. You’re only believing what he wants you to believe, because he’s manipulative, and he’s cruel, and he’s trying to drag you down with him._

_He wants you to depend upon him, because it’s the only way he can be sure he won’t be abandoned. That you won’t abandon him._

_He doesn’t want to be alone in this darkness he’s created._

Bruce could see that now. He could see the uncertainty lingering in Jeremiah’s eyes, mixing with the mirth that glittered there. It wasn’t hiding anymore, every emotion was on full display, and it was impossible to tell if the tears that shone in his silver eyes were from laughter or not. It was impossible to tell anything.

_If he’s going to fall, he’s not going to take you too._

Bruce steeled himself.

_Your truth doesn’t have to be the same as his._

If he never saw Jeremiah again, he could keep on living. He’d done it before. He could do it again. 

_He doesn’t matter._

“Bruce…” Jeremiah’s voice faltered, and the smile on his face didn't seem as genuine anymore. For a moment, it fell away entirely. “You feel it.” he repeated, and this time, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

He flinched when he was hit again, and his hands groped helplessly at the air, searching for something to hold onto.

He suddenly looked so lost.

So _frightened._

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

And Bruce knew those tears weren’t just from laughter.

He felt a telltale burning behind his eyes that wasn’t from the chemicals polluting the air, and blinked back tears of his own.

_Don’t._

Jeremiah reached for him, his hands tangling in the ends of Bruce’s sleeves, and he clung on tightly. Pulling him closer. Bruce resisted, trying to wrench his arms away. But Jeremiah wouldn’t let go.

And he kept staring up at Bruce through blurry eyes, his expression turned to total seriousness.

“T-tell me you feel it.” he whispered, the words barely more than a faint breath. He was holding onto Bruce as if he would never let go, and all Bruce wanted to do was get away.

He couldn’t bear to see him like this.

It only brought back memories to a time when they hadn’t been enemies. And that time was _gone._ Now, it only hurt to think about it. 

_Tell me you feel it._

Bruce stared down at Jeremiah, all attempts at knocking him out with a well-placed punch and leaving him here for the cops to pick up gone. This was between them now, and it would end between them. For _good._

_Tell me you feel it._

He clenched his teeth, biting down on his tongue in the process. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He didn’t know what to say.

_You know exactly what to say._

He knew the words that would destroy Jeremiah’s final hopes for what he had always wanted, but he wasn’t sure he could say them aloud. Because he didn’t know if they would sound believable enough.

_Does that mean you still don’t believe it?_

_After everything, you want to still hold on to that connection?_

He listened to the rattling breath of the criminal— _criminal,_ nothing more, _nothing more, dammit—_ beneath him. Tried to convince himself of what he really believed.

_You know it’s hopeless, believing in who he used to be._

_He’s never coming back._

Bruce lifted his chin.

_He was the one you cared about. He was your friend. Your family. Everything you wanted. But he’s gone now, and you can’t trick yourself into believing this lie any longer._

_Tell him._

_Tell him, and it will defeat him._

Bruce’s eyes were dark and guarded as he dragged Jeremiah up by his jacket lapels, so close that they could feel each other’s breath on their faces. They were holding on to each other now, Jeremiah still gripping the material of the bulletproof jacket Bruce was wearing with a dangerously strong grasp. For a long moment, they stared wordlessly at one another, their expressions unconsciously mirrored as they searched the gaze of the other, although neither knew what for.

_There’s nothing we’re hiding anymore._

_Nothing we can hide._

Then Bruce finally spoke. The words scalded his throat.

“You mean nothing to me.”

_Liar liar liar liar liar liar…_

_No, it’s the truth, the only truth, you see that now, you have to see it…_

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know what he believed.

Jeremiah froze. For a moment, Bruce thought he had stopped breathing entirely.

Then he slammed his head against Bruce’s, and the latter staggered back, seeing stars. Silently, Jeremiah got to his feet, his breath hissing between his teeth as he advanced upon the other.

The look in his eyes was pure devastation. Coupled with a burning, anguished rage. He looked like a wild wounded animal that wouldn’t give up a fight, and somehow that made him more dangerous. 

“Why don’t you understand?” He was pleading now, begging Bruce to listen. Clinging onto the final threads of hope that he could somehow, futilely convince his friend of the belief he so staunchly held.

Bruce wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.

He rushed at Jeremiah, intending on delivering a final blow to at least stun him until the police could arrive, but Jeremiah was faster than him, grabbing his wrist and twisting it back so Bruce was forced to stagger back against the railing of the catwalk. The metal groaned beneath the weight, and Bruce could swear he heard a snapping sound that made his blood run cold.

He thought about the vats of acid directly beneath them.

Before he could make a move to escape the other’s hold, Jeremiah was all but pressed up against him, shoving him even harder against the railing, and Bruce _definitely_ heard the sound of something breaking now, and he didn’t know what to do.

His thoughts were cut off by Jeremiah’s voice, high and panicked and completely out of control. 

“You _need_ me!” The words broke as his voice cracked, and Bruce saw the tears streaking down his face, leaving tracks amid the sweat and blood. Some buried part of his mind wanted to reach up and wipe them away. The part that still believed in the Jeremiah that used to exist. 

It was there, but he didn’t register it.

He’d blocked it out.

“I’m the answer—” Jeremiah grabbed the side of Bruce’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes, “—to your life’s _question!”_ He punched Bruce in the stomach, making him double over, and Bruce wondered dazedly how it had come to this.

It seemed like only yesterday they had been friends.

Jeremiah slammed the heel of his hand against Bruce’s chest, and the latter realized he had been holding the joker card. It was torn now, one of the corners bent, and Bruce shoved it away. Jeremiah caught it deftly between his fingers before it could flutter to the ground and crumpled it up in his hand. 

When he spoke, the words were weighed down with years of pent-up madness and longing and _desperation,_ all combined into something terrible and frightening.

There were still tears in his eyes.

“Without me, you’re just a _joke.”_ There was a sob caught in his voice now, and his hand brushed lightly across Bruce’s face, as if he was afraid his very touch might scare his friend away.

_No. No longer friends._

Then his grip tightened, became possessive. Bruce could see the insanity gleaming in his eyes now, unrestrained and remorseless. 

_Broken._

_Just a joke._

“…without a punchline.” The words were no more than a fractured whisper, and Bruce could hear the bitter pain they carried. 

He didn’t say anything.

Jeremiah’s face twisted in rage, and he swung a fist at Bruce with blind fury. The latter ducked instinctively, shutting his eyes and stumbling out of the way before the blow could land.

The catwalk creaked and rattled beneath his feet at the sudden movement.

He opened his eyes in time to see Jeremiah lose his balance when the momentum carried him forward, up against the cracked railing.

There was a snapping sound like a gunshot, and the railing broke.

Time seemed to stand still for an excruciating moment, and Bruce caught the look on Jeremiah’s face as their eyes met. A silent appeal, but one that Bruce understood clearly enough.

_Don’t let me fall._

And in that moment, Bruce knew his own expression revealed his unspoken answer all too well.

The answer he had always hoped he would never have to say.

_I already did._

Numbly, already knowing in that moment it wouldn’t make a difference, he reached out a useless hand, his fingers closing on empty air. Sheer terror filled Jeremiah’s eyes in that millisecond between them, and the only thing that indicated a smile on his sheet-white face was the blood that stained the sides of his mouth.

Bruce’s throat felt dry.

_He's scared._

Time didn’t seem to stand still any longer.

_I’m sorry._

He didn’t have time to think anything else. He could only watch as his best friend— _enemy enemy enemy_ —stumbled backward over the edge, his hands clutching wildly at nothing as he tried to stop the inevitable fall below.

\+ + + + + + + + +

It was _burning._

He couldn’t think anything else.

He couldn’t say anything.

He opened his mouth to speak and it only burned more.

_Br—_

Nothing.

\+ + + + + + + +

Bruce closed his eyes again.

He disappeared inside himself fo completely that it felt as if every one of his senses had abandoned him.

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry._

He didn’t know what for.

_Everything._

_Nothing._

_You._

It didn’t matter what it was for.

Had his heart stopped beating?

Bruce’s head hurt.

Had _his_ heart stopped beating?

_I’m so sorry._

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. _Who would you speak to?_ Couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wasn’t sure why he should.

His heart felt like it was twisting until it would break. Every second he stood there, motionless, tore it apart even more. He stared with empty eyes down into the vat, the opaque surface appearing eerily undisturbed.

For a moment, he doubted if the events of the past day had even happened at all.

_You only wish that._

_You know it’s not true._

He knew he should do something. But he didn’t know what. What did it matter? Did it matter?

_No._

_Yes._

It shouldn’t.

But it _did._

And he hated it. He hated that it still mattered. He hated that he couldn’t walk away, couldn’t leave this place, couldn’t put this all behind him as if it was just some sort of nightmare that would disappear like a ghost the moment he woke up. He hated that he _wouldn’t_ wake up, because it _was_ real, and there was no way to go back.

_I lost you._

He kept staring, empty-eyed, into the vat. 

Dimly, numbly, he wondered if Jeremiah was even still alive.

How could he be?

Bruce wanted to be relieved. He wanted it to end. Hadn’t he wanted it to end? 

He wished everything was simpler. 

He wished he could understand himself.

The emotions were beginning to fade away. No, that wasn’t quite right, they were beginning to be lost in the darkness that crept hungrily through his thoughts, demolishing the regret and despair and guilt and…

Not the guilt.

That was still there. It would always be there.

But it was _numb._

_I can’t help you anymore._

_I can’t save you._

_You didn’t want to be saved._

Bruce stepped back from the edge of the catwalk, as if in a dream. His foot accidentally brushed something off into the vat, and he didn’t look at it. If he had, he would have seen it was the joker card, crushed and torn and quickly burning to nothing in the corrosive chemicals as it disappeared from floating on the surface.

He couldn’t look down anymore. He couldn’t think about it.

If he did, he would only wish with more hopeless desperation he had been able to save his friend.

_I wish you would have let me._

There was the sudden sound of footsteps breaking the stifling silence. Echoing outside…Bruce knew it had to be Gordon, or someone who knew he was here. That meant they had stopped the fireworks.

He thought he should be happy about that.

_You are._

_You will be._

He wanted to call Gordon’s name, tell him where he was, but his voice was gone. Instead of speaking, Bruce let his hands close over the remaining railing of the catwalk, the cold metal burning at his palms. He didn’t look down, he _couldn’t_ , so instead he stared straight ahead, watching the shadows flicker and dance across the walls and higher catwalks almost as if they were living beings of their own.

Watching him from the darkness.

Disappearing. Coming back. Losing shape and form and fluttering here and there without pattern or reason. Disappearing again.

Bruce wished he could disappear like that.

He wished a lot of things.

“Bruce? Are you in there?” It was Gordon’s voice, tinged with worry and urgency, but Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

He forced himself to finally look back down again, his dark eyes reflecting the painfully bright fluorescence of the chemicals churning below. 

_I’m sorry._

As if that would make a difference now. As if that would have ever made a difference. They had always been locked into this fate, and there had been no way to alter the inevitable conclusion they would reach together. 

He had wanted it to end.

Bruce closed his eyes.

_But not like this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! Pls drop a comment to let me know what you think, I love to hear from readers and y'alls thoughts <3


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Ecco sat on the edge of the bridge, legs dangling off the side above the raging darkness of the restless waves below. Wires and fragmented splinters of metal rods were twisted and contorted as they sprang out of the end of the half-destroyed bridge, stretching out toward nothing like long claws. Debris from the demolished half of the bridge stuck up from the river, no more than giant shapeless shadows looming in the blackness of the night.

Ecco shivered and gripped harder onto the cold, rough concrete edge of the bridge. Trying to anchor herself to reality, when all she wanted to do was hide from it with everything she had.

But she knew she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t let herself go, not now. Even if it felt like everything was collapsing around her. 

Because, built into her mind, hardwired to her instincts, was the incessant need to see Jeremiah’s plan through to the end. For _him._ He would have wanted it.

_As if there is anything else to do._

It had already ended.

And yet, somehow, Ecco couldn’t let herself believe it truly had.

_You know why. You know that you’re only letting yourself hang on to all this because if you stopped, you’d have no reason for anything._

She stared down into the ink-black, churning water beneath her. 

_No reason for anything at all._

She breathed in deeply, the acrid smell of the chemicals from the unused fireworks burning her lungs. Jim Gordon had somehow managed to stop them from going off as they had been scheduled to _(and you were supposed to make sure they went off, you were supposed to make sure this plan would work and you didn’t, and it doesn’t even matter now because what’s the point of anything when_ he’s _not here?)_ but they had still managed to pollute the river. Ecco supposed she should be satisfied with that at least…it had, she’d heard, delayed reunification for an indeterminate amount of time.

A tiny smile flickered at the corners of her mouth, so small that she didn’t even notice it.

Jeremiah would be proud of her for that, at least.

The smile disappeared as sadness flooded her eyes all over again.

_Would_ have been proud.

How long had it been? Hours? Days? _Weeks?_ It was impossible to tell. She felt like she had been sitting on the end of the bridge forever, disappearing more fully into the darkness with every passing second. Fading out of reality as everything she’d ever cared about— _yes, everything, because it was only ever him_ —had been destroyed.

Ecco knew, with the rational part of her brain that still functioned from time to time, that it had only been a matter of hours since she had arrived at Ace Chemicals and seen what had happened. Daylight hadn’t even broke over the city skyline yet, but it felt like an eternity since she had stood there, petrified with fear and confusion, unable to process what she was seeing as police swarmed the area, and then turning abruptly and running away, running as far away as she could, not because she was a coward but because she couldn’t bear to be there anymore.

She didn’t know how she’d ended up at the bridge, but did that really matter?

Did anything really matter?

Ecco pressed her hands to her face, feeling the makeup she’d smeared carelessly across it caking onto her palms. A cold breeze howled across the surface of the bridge, stirring the mangled remnants of cars and railing that had piled up after the bombs went off. There were still dead bodies strewn here and there, rotting and buried halfway under the debris. 

Ecco thought that they looked peaceful. Even if their final moments had been the sensation of being crushed in a flaming explosion, there was peace on their faces. Absently, she reached out to the nearest corpse, its skin blue and flies gathered on the still eyelids, and trailed a hand across the stone-cold cheek.

She wished she could be like them.

It was better than this.

She didn’t hear the slow footsteps coming up behind her. If she had, she wouldn’t have cared. 

There was a soft creak as someone sat down on a severed car door, propped up halfway on a crumpled pile of railing. Ecco looked up at that, but continued to stare straight ahead. If it was the police, she would go with them. There was nothing left here for her.

Maybe she would simply push herself off the bridge before they brought her to prison. It would save a lot of trouble for everyone. She smiled drearily to herself, tears glistening in her eyes.

“He’s still alive, you know.”

Ecco’s shoulders tensed at the familiar voice, and she quickly scrubbed her sleeve across her face before turning around. An artificial smile clung to her lips, straining the muscles in her face and sending a twinge of betrayal through her heart.

She shouldn’t be smiling now.

But she couldn’t let anyone see how she really felt.

“Whatcha doing here, kitty cat?” Her voice trembled despite herself, and she felt fresh tears sting her eyes hotly. One of them tracked down her cheek and this time, she didn’t bother to wipe it away.

Selina kicked her heels against the car door, her mouth drawn into a thin line. She was holding her whip in one hand, but appeared otherwise unarmed. There was something in her eyes that Ecco hadn’t seen before, and it confused her. A darkness, almost like envy. She wasn’t sure what for, and she didn’t want to ask.

Right now, she either wanted Selina to kill her or leave her alone to return to her misery.

“Well, I was gonna try to have some time _alone_ on this particular bridge, since I thought it would be a safe bet for isolation.” Selina still looked none too pleased at Ecco’s presence, but she did nothing to attack her. “But it’s apparently not.”

Ecco sniffed, turning back around to stare out across the river. The wind whipped past, blowing strands of tangled blonde hair into her face. “Lucky for you, there’s four other bridges outta this godforsaken city.”

Selina nodded, following her gaze. Her posture was stiff and on guard, and the darkness in her expression had already changed form envy to betrayal. It was clear that her mind wasn’t on Ecco at all. She was deep in thought about something else. “Yeah. Lucky for me.”

She got to her feet, climbing off the broken car door and leaping lightly to the ground. Wordlessly, she hung the whip back onto the side of her belt and ran a hand through her hair, brushing it out of her face. 

Something clicked in Ecco’s mind and she spun around, the breath rushing from her lungs as her eyes turned wide as saucers and she stared at Selina’s retreating back, trying to form the words she wanted to ask. For a moment, they wouldn’t come, and her heart doubled in speed, slamming against her ribcage as a million emotions flooded through her brain with enough intensity to short-circuit it for good.

“Wait!”

Selina stopped, but she didn’t turn back. She only stood, waiting. Ecco clambered to her feet unsteadily, ignoring the tears that continued to roll down her cheeks. “Wh-what did you just say a minute ago?”

A short, bitter laugh caught in Selina’s throat. She still didn’t turn to look at Ecco as she answered. “You mean when I said that Jeremiah is still alive?”

Ecco wondered if she was being tricked. If this was Selina’s idea for payback of some kind…although for what, she wasn’t sure. Hadn’t she been punished enough already?

Still…

“Are you telling me the truth?” Her voice suddenly sounded very vulnerable, almost childlike. She didn’t notice how she had twisted her hands together tightly, a trait she’d unconsciously picked up from Jeremiah when she had first begun to work for him. 

Time seemed to stand still before Selina answered.

“Why would I lie to you?” They still didn’t face each other, but the words came across clearly, laden with contempt. And something else, but Ecco couldn’t figure out what. It almost sounded like resentment, and she didn’t understand why. 

In truth, she didn’t care why, either.

She could only think of one thing.

“No one told me.” she whispered, the words catching in the wind. _Is this a trick? It can’t be a trick, she can’t be that cruel, she can’t…_

“It’s not like you were the top of the priority list.” Selina said blandly. “ _I_ wouldn’t have told you if you weren’t intruding on my spot on the bridge.” 

“Wh-where is he?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She _did_ know…she knew all too well, and she knew where Bruce was too, and she knew if she thought about this whole mess for one moment more, she really would crack. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “He’s _your_ boyfriend, find him yourself.”

“We’re not…” Ecco began reluctantly, but Selina cut her off, almost aggressively.

“Just go. I’ve told you enough, haven’t I?”

Ecco licked her lips, her throat suddenly feeling very dry. “You…you said he’s alive. Do you mean…”

“Technically, I guess he’s alive.” Selina said between her teeth, turning back around sharply and brushing past Ecco until she stood on the very edge of the bridge, balancing like a tightrope walker. “ From what I heard he’s also technically brain dead, so there’s _that,_ but hey, be happy with what you’ve got, amiright?” She threw a dead-eyed glance over her shoulder at Ecco. “It’s more than both of you deserve.”

Ecco didn’t hear the last part, and Selina didn’t intend for her to. The latter watched as the other girl scrambled over the debris covering the bridge, disappearing into the darkness that was Gotham, then turned back to the river in front of her. Her jaw tightened, and her green eyes narrowed as memories of the past several hours insisted on replaying themselves in her head, no matter how hard she tried to repress them.

_I should have left this city for good._

But she couldn’t have, anyway.

_“Selina, I have to go with them.” Bruce had pulled away from her grasp, and Selina had stared at him with hurt in her wide, confused eyes._

_“You don’t, Bruce. This isn’t about you anymore. It doesn’t have to be about you.” She reached up one hand to brush across his face. Selina wasn’t one to initiate affectionate contact, but she had been so worried about Bruce that she could manage an exception this time. Besides, he didn’t seem to be in his right mind. How could he be, if he was insisting on seeing this insane mess through till the end? “You can be free, finally.”_

_“No.” Bruce wasn’t looking at her. No matter what Selina said, she couldn’t get him to tear his eyes away from the cluster of police officers and other assorted figures who mingled about in the dim corner of the Ace Chemicals plant, their murmured voices mingling with one another until none of the words were comprehendible any longer. “You don’t…it’s difficult to explain, Selina.”_

_“But it’s not.” She frowned, unable to understand what he was talking about. “There’s nothing to explain anymore. This is over, Bruce.”_

_“Is it?” he asked, more to himself than her. Selina barely heard the murmured words. “I don’t…”_

_“Bruce.” She didn’t intend for her voice to sound so sharp, but she was beginning to be worried. There was so much guilt in Bruce’s dark eyes that overwhelmed everything else, and beneath that guilt, something that burned with an intensity she’d never seen before. She couldn’t figure out what it was, and it almost scared her. “You’re putting too much responsibility on yourself. You can’t keep doing this.”_

_They looked at one another for a long moment, trying to read each other’s thoughts, before Bruce spoke._

_“I only need you.” He brought his hands up to cup her face, and Selina stared up at him, her gaze searching his for answers. She wasn’t sure what had warranted this turn of the conversation, but she wasn’t going to protest. “I only need you, Selina.” The words were almost desperate. “We’re complete together, you and me. I don’t need anything more.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself now._

_“Okay.” She tried to keep her voice soft as she placed her own hands over his, feeling how they were shaking. “Okay, then let’s go. You don’t need to be here anymore. This isn’t your responsibility now, Bruce.”_

_It never had been, she knew, but she didn’t say that aloud._

_Bruce shook his head slowly, looking terribly lost. Selina wished suddenly that he had never met Jeremiah Valeska. She wished none of them had. She wished, with a dark part of her heart that she didn’t often acknowledge, that his brother had killed him back before he’d escaped the circus, and their paths had never crossed._

_And then maybe Bruce wouldn’t think he had to take so much blame for all this._

_Maybe they could have been happy._

_“No.” Bruce whispered, slowly drawing his hands away from her face, but Selina caught his fingers in hers and held them firmly in place._

_“Yes. It’s going to be all right. You just have to let this go.”_

_“I can’t.” His voice stuck in his throat, and Selina shivered. “You’re everything I need, Selina, you’ll always be what I need, but…” He wrenched his hands away before she could hold onto them again, “I have to go.”_

_“With them?” She pointed forcefully to Gordon and the other officers. “Bruce, just let them do their job. Please. Come on, you know you’re not thinking clearly.”_

_He looked at her with tortured eyes, and for a moment, Selina was sure it was a window into his soul. All the conflict, all the emotions teeming over, all the confusion that had been tearing him apart, was there for her to see._

_She hated it._

_Hated Jeremiah for what he had done to him._

_Because this was indisputably Jeremiah’s fault, she was sure of that._

_“No.” Bruce said again, his voice soft but resolute. He leaned down suddenly and kissed her, and Selina closed her eyes, unconsciously wrapping her arms around his neck as she leaned into the embrace._ This _was familiar, this was welcoming, and it was all she wanted._

_She wanted them to stay like this forever._

_But then Bruce pulled away, his eyes never straying from hers, and straightened up. One bloodstained hand brushed the side of her face, his fingers tangling in her dark curls, and he shook his head wordlessly._

_Selina chewed on her lip. “Bruce…”_

_“I have to go.” He stepped back, and when she followed, he held her at arm’s length. “I know what you said, but you don’t…look, I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, Selina, but I have to see this through to the end.”_

_He turned away._

_Selina stared after him, wanting to speak. But she couldn’t say anything._

_Why was he doing this? Throwing himself back into the world he’d been trying to escape? Entangling his fate yet again with the person who had just tried to tear apart his life and destroy everything he believed in? That…that_ lunatic _who was so obsessed with proving his point…whatever that was…that he would destroy everything that mattered to Bruce. And even after all that, Selina thought, Bruce would still go back._

_It was like he wanted it to happen all over again._

She shook off the memory forcefully, staring out over the river. It felt like it had happened a year ago, not a matter of hours in the past. Confusion still raged in her mind…why would Bruce willingly go straight back into everything that had tried to break him, when he could have been free?

Why didn’t he see how easy it would be to let it all go?

Of course, Selina already knew the answer to that question. She’d known it all along, but she didn’t want to think it. She didn’t want it to be true.

But she knew why Bruce was throwing himself back into the path of the monster who’d tried to destroy him.

Because he’d always craved conflict.

That was why he’d never pushed _her_ away completely. She didn’t give him what he wanted, didn’t listen to him when he told her to follow _his_ rules, _his_ morals. It was why he didn’t abandon her, even after he’d thought she’d turned into a murderer.

He needed someone to defy.

Needed someone to defy _him_.

Selina’s eyes narrowed as her fingers curled possessively around her whip. 

Well, this would lead nowhere for him. No matter what he wanted, Jeremiah was gone.

Alive, perhaps, that was true. If anyone really wanted to call it that. But not what Bruce needed, or thought he needed.

All Selina could hope was that he would abandon this absurd obsession once he realized it would lead nowhere. When he realized his enemy was nothing now, nothing that could possible matter to him. 

And then maybe, she thought, Bruce would stop leaving her behind.

_It should be me._

If Bruce was going to search for conflict that would satisfy him, then it should be _her._ Hadn’t it always been? And what about that would change now? Their relationship (Selina could still feel his kiss burning on her lips) only strengthened that bond…they had always clashed in one way or another. It was just a part of their nature.

Somehow, the conflict pulled them closer together. They were stronger when they fought.

It was better, she realized, to be an enemy that Bruce cared about in some convoluted way, than a friend who he would push aside again and again as he searched for something better.

Selina had found herself caught in the middle for the past five years, and she wasn’t sure which side she preferred.

Bruce loved her, she was sure of that. And she loved him. But was love enough for either of them? Would it satisfy the craving for the fight that lived in both of them? Was it enough to keep them together?

Evidently not…Bruce had dropped her like she was nothing back at Ace Chemicals. Because he had found a _better_ enemy, the final piece of himself he was looking for.

And Selina resented that.

She lifted her chin, staring resolutely out across the river as the contaminated water lapped eagerly at the jagged edge of the broken bridge. Bruce would come back eventually, he would learn that he was going down a rabbit hole that led nowhere, and he would have to turn back some time. If he didn’t want to get lost in the darkness she knew he was holding back in himself, he would turn back.

Selina shut her eyes tight, feeling the cold chemical-tinged air sting at her face.

She would wait for him.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

Bruce’s eyelids felt like weights as he struggled to keep them open. 

His mind rebelled against his body, defying the exhaustion that dragged him down. It churned restlessly, thoughts flying back and forth, cluttered with emotions he didn’t understand, but somehow still knew what they meant.

He bit down hard on his lip, the sharp flash of pain enough to send a jolt through his body and rejuvenate him for at least a few minutes.

_What does it matter?_

_What are you waiting for?_

Jim had told him to go home (Bruce had thought about Wayne Manor, about the only true home he’d ever known, and how it had been reduced to a smoking pile of rubble and ash, but hadn’t said that aloud) and let the police handle this. 

_“This?” Bruce had asked, his voice raising despite his best efforts. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Jim, you know I can’t do that.”_

_Gordon looked around distractedly. “Look, Bruce, I understand that you’re worried. But believe me, there’s no need for concern. He’s not going anywhere,” he jerked a thumb unfeelingly at the motionless body hidden beneath a sheet on the stretcher behind them, “and I doubt any of his hired thugs will make a move if they know their leader’s gone.”_

_Bruce flinched at that last word, unnoticed by Jim. “That’s not—” He swallowed the words before they came out. He’d been going to say that wasn’t why he wanted to stay, but Jim wouldn’t understand. Of course he wouldn’t…Bruce himself didn’t even understand._

_He wasn't sure he’d ever understand._

“Mr. Wayne?” The nurse’s haggard voice cut through his thoughts, and Bruce looked up sharply. He’d almost forgotten where he was, and the hospital walls glared at him as if reprimanding him for it. 

“Yes?”

“Alfred Pennyworth is here to see you.” She nodded to the doorway behind her, then disappeared without another word.

Bruce straightened up from where he was sitting, unease rushing through him. He didn’t know what for…he didn’t have to explain himself to Alfred. This was all very simple, he just felt responsible for everything that had happened and wanted to oversee it through to the end.

_The end._

_It can’t be the end._

What else could it possibly be?

“Master Bruce.” Alfred appeared in the doorway, stopping short when he saw Bruce sitting there, alone in the dim light. There was no one else around, perhaps due to the fact that it was past midnight. Keeping track of time wasn’t the top of Bruce’s priority list at the moment. “So you really are here.”

“Hello, Alfred.” Bruce managed, realizing how his voice betrayed his exhaustion. Alfred’s expression softened, and he crossed the room to sit down next to the boy, looking him over cautiously. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”

“Well, I’m not sure how you would have, seeing the Wayne Manor phones are, shall we say, completely destroyed.” Alfred said drily. Bruce didn’t look at him. “Although I’m not sure why you’re _here.”_

_Neither am I,_ Bruce wanted to say. Instead, he answered, “I just wanted to make sure everything would be handled properly.”

“Pardon me for saying so, mate,” Alfred tried to catch Bruce’s eye, but the latter continued looking stoically away, “but I don’t see what the fuss is about. That maniac isn’t likely to cause any more problems, if its the safety of those folks,” he gestured to the door, “you’re worried about.”

Bruce swallowed a lump in his throat. Worried about _them?_ As if he really thought Jeremiah would magically come back to life and fight them all of…he had been _there._

_“Jim, listen to me!” he twisted out of the police captain’s grip, storming toward the group of EMTs and officers. Gordon followed close behind, trying to sound reasonable._

_“Bruce, you’re making this a bigger deal than it needs to be—”_

_“They’re going to hurt him, Jim.” he snapped, eyes flaming almost dangerously. Gordon took a wary step back._

_“Look, I know you’re concerned.” It was clearly written across his face that he didn’t understand Bruce’s outburst at all, but he tried to reason with him nonetheless. “But you don’t need to be. He’s already dead, or close to it.”_

_“He’s not—”_

_“If it reassures you, I’ll drive you to the hospital once I’m through here.” The chemical plant had been blocked off with police tape…even in the midst of the chaos the city was in, Jim was trying to maintain the normalcy of investigating a crime scene, at least. As if there was anything to investigate._

_The situation was clear enough._

_“Okay.” Bruce relented, subdued. He hated himself for not being able to walk away, and hated Jeremiah for manipulating him into feeling so horribly responsible. A part of his mind told him that he didn’t need to do this, but he couldn’t help himself._

_It was stronger than the part of him mind that told him to turn his back on all this for good._

Much _stronger._

“Mate.” Alfred was talking to him, and Bruce blinked, looking up to see the same nurse from before standing there, looking at him skeptically. He cleared his throat, wondering what time it was. Not that it mattered…he doubted he’d get any sleep for a long while.

“Yes?” 

“Captain Gordon wanted me to tell you that you should go home now.” She sounded disinterested, as if this was just another line in the checklist to cross off. “He’s leaving for the precinct too, he said, and he doesn’t think you should be here anymore.”

_Of course he doesn’t,_ Bruce wanted to say sharply. Instead, he kept quiet. Alfred got to his feet, looking down at him.

“Well, let’s go, Master B. I think some shut-eye is in order, eh?”

Numbly, Bruce stood up too, still watching the nurse. “Where is he?” The words left his mouth before he could hold them back, and she raised one eyebrow.

“Who? Gordon?”

Bruce shook his head, something heavy pressing all around his heart. “J—” He swallowed, then looked up to meet her eyes again. “T-the patient that was just brought in.”

She frowned at that, her expression becoming even more skeptical. Alfred seemed about to say something, but thankfully, he changed his mind.

“Just down the hall.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Why were you—”

“Thanks.” Bruce brushed past her before she could finish and all but ran down the silent, shadow-filled hallway. He heard Alfred call his name behind him, but he didn’t stop.

He _couldn’t_ stop.

_“You okay, Bruce?” Jim glanced over at him, concerned, from the driver’s seat of the patrol car. Bruce, staring out the passenger window, leaning his head against one hand, jumped, having been startled out of his thoughts._

_“I’m fine.” His voice sounded hollow._

_Jim cleared his throat, trying to think of something to say to break the heavy silence of the car. He was stumped when it came to trying to figure out Bruce’s thoughts. He wasn’t sure if the boy was relieved this was all over, if he was still in denial about Jeremiah truly abandoning any trace of their previous friendship, or if he was angry at everything the other had orchestrated to prove his point._

_Or a combination of all three._

_“Where’s Alfred?” he asked cautiously. Bruce shrugged._

_“I don’t know. I last saw him at the tunnel entrance in the Dark Zone. I’ll find him eventually.”_

_“Okay.” Jim put both hands tightly around the wheel and stared straight ahead. The conversation died down just as soon as it had begun._

“Bruce!” Alfred’s voice echoed in the silence of the hospital corridor, and Bruce ignored it. Strangely out of breath, although he had run only a few steps, he stopped short in front of one door, reaching up to run a hand across the name scrawled on the piece of paper taped above the handle.

_Valeska, J._

Without bothering to look around, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It swung shut behind him with a quiet click.

The room was stiflingly silent. Bruce had the sudden urge to turn around and get out of there as fast as he could, to run as far away as possible. 

Instead, he stood completely still, his heavy breathing feeling much too loud.

He could hear his heart beating too.

_See it through to the end._

He stepped forward slowly, mouth dry and eyes wide. Every movement was fraught with tension, and he didn’t realize he was holding his breath. As he approached the motionless figure on the bed, shrouded in darkness, he felt the numbness from before sweep over him again.

It was something of a relief.

A shield.

Bruce sat down in the cold plastic chair alongside the bed, hands dangling over the armrests awkwardly. He stared down at the floor, unable to lift his eyes to the figure alongside him. 

“Hey, Miah.” he said softly, then stopped abruptly. He hadn’t used that name in a long time, and it sent a torrent of memories crashing through his brain. 

_“I should have been more careful…”_

_"It wasn't your fault, Bruce.”_

He closed his eyes.

_It wasn’t my fault._

_It was, it was, it was, it was…_

_It’s always been your fault. Everything that’s ever happened, that’s led to this, everything that put you on this path that would end this way…_

_It’s your fault._

He wished there was somehow he could run away from it all. He didn’t care if it was a coward’s way out.

He wanted to get out of here, out of this place, out of this _city,_ to escape from everything that haunted him.

_Your fault._

“I’m sorry.” he whispered. Apologies felt like second nature to him now. He’d given enough in the past day to last a lifetime. 

_He brought you this._

Bruce’s hands clamped down on the chair armrests as renewed hatred flooded back through him. The intensity of it almost scared him.

_He did this._

“I still hate you.” he breathed, finally looking up. It was almost a relief to say. A reassurance in the midst of all his doubt. His voice shook, and he tried to steady his gaze. 

Even in the darkness, he could see the face of the figure beside him. Bruce’s throat went dry. 

He was _unrecognizable._

Bruce had known that, of course. It was _stupid_ to think that someone who’d all but drowned in corrosive chemicals would emerge unscathed…everyone here didn’t even think Jeremiah was _alive._ But it was even more startling up close, and for a moment, he thought the breath had frozen in his lungs as he leaned closer.

Granted, the majority of his former friend’s— _stop saying that word, call him what he is, your enemy—_ body was swathed in bandages, but no one at the hospital really cared two cents about the criminal who had driven the city into a lawless anarchical place of chaos. Bruce could see where the sleeves of the jacket he’d been wearing—no doubt picked out with painstaking care for the occasion, and the thought nearly brought something dangerously close to a hint of tears to his eyes for some godforsaken reason—had been painfully fused to his burned arms, and the pallor of his skin, caused by the insanity gas, had been replaced with raw blistering. Despite his horror at the sight, Bruce laid a careful hand over the back of Jeremiah’s wrist, trying not to chafe the bandages, and winced at the feverish heat radiating from the ruined flesh.

_You act as if he can feel this._

_As if there’s anything happening inside his mind._

Bruce gritted his teeth.

_He’s_ gone, _and you can’t come to terms with it._

Why could he never accept the inevitable?

He realized there _were_ tears standing in his eyes now, and he blinked them back forcefully, staring down at the disfigured face, half-shrouded in gauze, that wouldn’t open its eyes and look at him, and _dammit,_ Bruce hated it. His chest felt like it was burning, and unconsciously, his grip around the other’s limp wrist tightened into an almost possessive hold.

_Open your eyes and look at me._

Jeremiah didn’t move.

Bruce held onto him tighter.

_Look at me._

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to let go. He wanted to. He didn’t want to. He wasn’t sure why he was here in the first place. He wished Jeremiah had died in those chemicals for good.

_No._

_Yes…_

_Goddamit, just wake up and look at me!_

_Prove you still hate me, prove you still want to fight me, prove that you’re still_ here _…_

He was holding onto his enemy’s wrist with both hands now, not caring if he hurt the other or not— _because he’s brain dead, he can’t feel anything, he can't think, or if he can, you don’t know it—_ and staring at that unrecognizable but horribly familiar face and wishing uselessly that he’d never come here because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to leave.

_I always end up losing you._

_Over and over and over again…_

_We always end up like this._

Except this time, everything was changed.

And this time, they wouldn’t go on.

“I hate you.” he whispered between his teeth, eyes flaming.

_I hate you._

Bruce couldn’t breathe. 

_I hate you._

The door opened, and somehow he looked up, drawing his hands away almost guiltily from where they were latched around the other’s arm. He could still feel the raging heat from that fevered, scarred skin against his palms, and pressed them flat against the armrests of the chair he was sitting in, trying to dispel any memory of that awful sensation.

“You need to leave.” It was the nurse’s voice, not Alfred. Bruce had anticipated the latter, and he was irrationally grateful that it _wasn’t_ Alfred…he wouldn’t understand this. 

Not that Bruce understood it any better than anyone else.

“Okay.” he said quietly, getting unsteadily to his feet. He tore his gaze away from the comatose figure in front of him, and turned to face the woman, forcing a look of neutrality onto his face. His eyes were still red, but she couldn’t see that in the darkness. 

She stepped aside for him to leave, and Bruce obeyed wordlessly, keeping his head down the entire time. His steps slowed as he made his way back down the corridor to where Alfred was waiting, and exhaustion began to truly set in. His shoulders slumped with every movement, and his eyes were heavier than before.

For a moment, all he thought about was going back to the apartment he and the butler were staying at, and crashing on the couch at least until morning.

Not that he wanted to go back there, but at least it was a roof over their heads for now.

He thought that maybe he _would_ be able to sleep tonight.

If only to escape from everything else.

\+ + + + + + + + + 

Jonathan Crane tossed the still-smoking gun to the side, ignoring the clatter as it disappeared into the darkness. He stared down at the crumpled body on the floor, then turned to Jervis Tetch, who had been listening to the message the now-dead interloper had just given to them, who having passed by Ace Chemicals a few hours before and witnessed the chaos there.

“I’m going to bed.”

He stalked across the apartment, stepping gingerly over the dead body, and slammed the door behind him.

Jervis sighed, staring out the window as he lifted the cup of cold tea to his lips, then set it back down without any real appetite. 

He told himself things would look less bleak in the morning.

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

Selina stopped in front of an abandoned jewelry store, the windows cracked and covered with grime. It was dark inside, darker than it was on the street, and there wasn’t a single sign of movement anywhere around.

Her eye caught the gleam of a freshly-cut diamond that sat in the display, untouched and unmounted.

_Bruce wouldn’t want you to—_

She stopped short, then traced a hand across the broken glass. An idea began to form.

_Oh._

_Exactly._

Meticulously, she placed the heel of her hand against part of the cracked pane, then pressed carefully. The glass broke under the pressure, creating a hole big enough for her to fit her arm through without slicing it open on one of the sharp exposed edges.

For a moment, a glimmer of inspiration broke through the shadows in her eyes.

She reached through, her hand closing around the cold diamond.

_Not that he’ll care. Or notice. Or anything._

“But hey, at least you’ve got something out of it.” she said aloud to herself, drawing her hand back out and admiring the gemstone clutched in her palm.

Right now, that was better than nothing.

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

Ecco sat on the window ledge, half-hidden in the fluttering curtains and several stories above the ground, and stared with dry eyes at the motionless figure on the bed.

Tear stains tracked down her cheeks, but her breath had stopped hitching and had become steady again.

The only thing that betrayed her distress was the way she gripped the ledge on which she sat.

Her knuckles had turned white and she had lost circulation in the ends of her fingers from how tightly she held on.

She didn’t notice.

She didn't think of anything at all.

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

“Did you know he came to me for help once?” Lee Thompkins leaned against the railing of the balcony in the police precinct, staring down at the abandoned desks and chairs below her. The holding cells were empty, and there was no one else around aside from them.

Jim came to stand at her side, unbuttoning his coat and tossing it over the back of the swivel chair behind him. “What?”

She pursed her lips. “Told me all about the voices in his head. I remember thinking the poor thing was traumatized beyond belief, and I wanted to help him.”

“Did you?” This was the first Jim was hearing any of this, and his forehead was creased in a frown.

Lee’s hands tightened around the polished wooden railing as she shook her head. “He wouldn’t let me.” She paused. “I wish I had.”

Jim sighed. “There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

She glanced over at him. “Sometimes I blame myself, you know.”

He forestalled her next words quickly. “So do about half the people in this city, apparently.” They both knew he meant Bruce, but it was better to speak vaguely. Especially when neither of them understood the young billionaire’s guilt. “You shouldn’t. If he refused your help, then he’s to blame.”

“Hm.” She trailed her hand over his, glancing up to meet his gaze. “I’d like to think that.”

“You should. It’s the truth.” He took her hand in his.

They were both silent, processing the events of the night as they stood in the empty police station, surrounded by shadows.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

“Here.” The word was toneless, and Bruce’s expression was kept carefully neutral as he spoke it. The wad of cash he was holding out was quickly snatched up by the nurse, who was sitting behind the desk that used to be for the receptionist, busily scribbling away on the clip board she was holding.

“Look, Mr. Wayne, we’ll happily accept your money.” she said bluntly, setting down her pen and finally looking up at him for a moment. “But what exactly do you want us to do with it?”

Bruce felt like his throat was closing up. He’d explained this to everyone here at the hospital, trying to get their attention as much as he could in the middle of all the work that was being dealt with. He understood their unwillingness to listen to him. Gotham was still cut off from the mainland, and supplies were running low, not to mention that the fighting in the city had gotten worse and much more violent in the past few days. 

But his request was really very simple, all said and done. He knew the true reason why no one wanted to listen to him.

“I want you to keep him alive.” he said quietly, and the nurse’s gaze snapped back up at him, filled with sharp disapproval. Bruce didn’t look away. “I’ll pay for everything you need, for as long as you need, but I want you to do it.”

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her forehead furrowed in confusion. “Mr. Wayne, I don’t see why—”

“Please.” He knew he sounded desperate, and hoped she wouldn’t start asking questions. He didn’t have answers.

“We have people here who _deserve_ help.” she snapped.

“I know.” He was gripping the corner of the desk tightly, trying to hold onto something stable as conflict raged in his mind. “And I understand your reluctance in this. Believe me.” _She doesn’t even know the half of it._ “I can…I can pay you extra if you want.”

_Now you’re bribing her?_

_Bribing her to keep your own enemy alive?_

_When you know he’s never coming back?_

“It’s a waste.” she said bitterly, her eyes dark. “No amount of money will change that. That…that _monster_ made Gotham what it is now.” Genuine hurt sparked in her expression and her words were clipped, withdrawn as if to protect herself from her own memories. “I lost my family in those bridge bombings. Barely made it out alive myself.” Bruce looked down. “I don’t owe him anything. No one in this city does.”

“I’m sorry.” Bruce murmured. He hated himself more and more by the minute, hated that he couldn’t let this go. He knew it was foolish to bother with any of it…what was he hoping to gain? Why couldn’t he just walk away? Jeremiah _had_ destroyed the city, he’d destroyed and torn down everything Bruce cared about, and yet, Bruce couldn’t let him have what he deserved.

He couldn’t let him die.

_Why not? Why are you being so stubborn? You’re prolonging your own misery. Leave him as he is, and he’ll die in a matter of days. No one will pay any attention to him, and he’ll simply become one of the countless corpses that get thrown out of this hospital every day. He won’t even know it…he’s already too close to death to even think about bringing him back._

Bruce had the chance to move on.

_And you can’t do it._

“Sorry doesn’t fix any of this.” The nurse interrupted his thoughts, picking up her clipboard again. “And I don’t really know what you want us to do for your brain-dead friend.”

“He’s not—”

_He wasn’t._

She gave him a skeptical glance. “I still don’t know what you want us to do.”

“Just don’t let him die?” Bruce offered, feeling horribly helpless. He wished he hadn’t come here in the first place and hadn’t asked about what they were doing—or _not_ doing—to save his…

His enemy.

And he wished that, when he heard they were making no effort whatsoever to keep him alive, he had accepted that and walked away.

_Let yourself be free._

He _couldn’t._

“How many times do I have to rephrase this for you?” She tapped her fingers against her clipboard impatiently. “There’s nothing we can do to bring him back, Wayne.” He could see she was growing more irate with him at the moment, and really, he didn’t blame her. “Waste your money all you want, bribe us so he won’t die for good, but you’re not going to get what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want!” he shot back, his voice raising suddenly and harshly. He shut his mouth immediately, guilt rushing across his features. The nurse stared at him silently for a long moment, then shrugged.

“My point being, you won’t accomplish anything by doing this. No one will.” Despite her words, she tucked the money away into one of the drawers in the desk and began scribbling notes down on paper. Even amidst the chaos Gotham was currently struggling in, it was indisputable that Bruce Wayne still held a degree of power, and she didn’t want to combat someone like that.

Even if it meant keeping Jeremiah Valeska alive.

Bruce watched her warily, unsure of how his outburst would be received. He regretted speaking at all—but then again, what didn’t he regret these days?—but he never once considered retracting his words.

Letting Jeremiah die wasn’t an option.

And Bruce hated himself for that.

_It just shows you have no strength of will. None at all. You said you could live the rest of your life without him, that you don’t need him, that you’ve never needed him, and that was all a lie, wasn’t it? Every word you spoke to him was a lie, a shield to cover up the ugly truth that you’re to afraid to admit even to yourself._

_You can’t exist without someone who will force you to fight._

_Someone who will push you to your limits and give you a_ purpose _._

Why couldn’t he have a purpose like normal people? Why couldn’t he be content living a normal, mundane, boring, _satisfying_ life like everyone else? Why did it all have to be so confusing, and why did it always have to come back to the conflict he always searched for?

_Because you can_ do _something about it._

_It gives you a chance to fight against everything you despise._

_Makes you feel important. Like you’ve made some sort of difference._

Bruce shook his head. That was just a fantasy now, a childish wish to grasp onto something tangible and destroy it. It was short-sighted and useless in the long run, wasn’t it? And what would it accomplish, aside from a momentary satisfaction that he had done a little bit of good in saving some people?

Without warning, the words that he’d so often repeated to himself over and over again flitted through his head.

_You have to protect Gotham._

He pressed his lips tightly together.

_Protect it from what?_

It was already fallen.

And if it ever rose up again, and if order was ever restored, who would he fight?

_You’re only proving to yourself the very thing you want to ignore. That Jeremiah was the one thing that truly completed you. The final piece to the puzzle. The adversary you could rely on._

Bruce pushed the thought away abruptly. He couldn’t let irrationality take over. He had to move on, and all he was doing now was seeing things through to their conclusion. That was all, and there was nothing more.

He _would_ leave this behind him.

He had to.

“I’m not hoping to accomplish anything.” he finally answered the nurse, his hands balled into fists at his sides and his gaze stoic. Calm. Because he didn’t care anymore. He _couldn’t_ care. “I know when things are over, and this,” he met her eyes decidedly, and for a moment, he almost believed his words as he spoke them, “is most definitely over.”

\+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Ecco spun the barrel of the pistol and stopped it abruptly with the heel of her hand, shoving it back into place. Without hesitation, she positioned it against the side of her temple and stared expressionlessly out across the city skyline. It was cold up on the rooftop, above the pollution in the air that hung low over Gotham’s streets, but she didn’t notice it. When a frigid wind swept past, she barely blinked.

The click of the trigger being pulled was much too loud in the silence.

Ecco’s shoulders slumped and she sighed tiredly.

The chamber was empty. _Again._

Gritting her teeth, she rotated her wrist, listening to the joints pop, before returning the gun to its position. Her expression had changed only minutely…a hint of desperation creeping into her dark eyes as she continued to stare ahead silently.

_Please._

Another click.

This time, her entire body tensed with pent-up frustration, and she flung the pistol to the side, watching it slide off across the rooftop, knocking up against a concrete water tank with a dull clang. Ecco buried her face in her hands, her eyes burning with tears she wished would come. 

“Just let me _go!”_ she whispered, voice muffled and quivering with helplessness. 

She knew who she was really talking to.

_Why won’t you let me go?_

_Why won’t I let myself leave you?_

Her breath shuddered in her chest.

_I’m no use to you anymore. What point is there in staying?_

And yet, that infuriating, desperate flame of hope wouldn’t leave her alone.

It was the only thing that had persuaded her to put a single bullet in the chamber instead of locking and loading with the full intent of dying on the rooftop that night.

Giving herself at least a hint of a chance to live.

_To live for him._

_Because he needs you._

Why couldn’t she just let go?

“Hey.” A voice broke the silence, and Ecco half-turned to see who it was before deciding she didn’t really care. The voice was female, and unfamiliar, and it didn’t sound impressed at the despair it was witnessing. If anything, it sounded almost condescending. “You’re Jeremiah Valeska’s assistant, aren’t you?”

Ecco hated hearing his name spoken aloud. To her, it was as sacred as a prayer, and to hear that voice using it so casually, as if he was _no one,_ was insulting. Some of the emptiness inside her was replaced by anger. “So what if I am?”

_If I was?_

“Okay, so we’ve established that you are.” The voice was conversational now, although no more friendly than before. But it wasn’t hostile, or threatening. Only patronizing. “What are you going to do with your life now that he’s dead?”

“He’s _not_ dead!” she snapped, whirling around to face the owner of the voice. She looked up to see a girl about her own age standing behind her, a disapproving expression on her face. Ecco surveyed her for a long moment, noticing the other girl’s red hair.

_Just like…_

She felt a twinge in her heart as memories from long ago clamored at the edges of her thoughts. 

_How could you ever have wanted him to be something more than he was?_

_Why couldn't you have been satisfied with what you had?_

_If things had only stayed the same, you wouldn’t be alone right now._

“He’s not dead.” she repeated, softer this time. All her energy had drained away again, and she wanted this conversation to be over. Her mind was a constant battle, half of it insisting that Jeremiah was still alive, and she had to stay alive too, because there was always the chance that somehow, some way, things could change. But the other side, with equal strength, told her pragmatically that it was only wishful thinking, and that all she was doing was wasting breath with every passing minute.

That there was nothing left for her anymore.

It was almost easier to believe that.

“Huh, the newspaper seemed to be pretty sure he was done for.” The other girl carefully examined her nails, which Ecco noticed had been sharpened to an almost lethal point on the ends. “Although the fact that Gotham is printing newspapers as the city literally falls in on itself is laughable.” Her expression darkened. “To say nothing of the slaughter that occurs in order to print those very pages.”

Ecco frowned. “Slaughter?”

“Senseless murder, all of it. They’ve done nothing to deserve the pain humanity inflicts on them.”

“What?”

The other girl glared at her, as if it was Ecco’s fault for not understanding. “The _trees,_ of course. They’re the ones who are forced to suffer for no reason aside from human greed.”

There was a long moment of silence between them, during which Ecco stared skeptically at the newcomer. Finally, she spoke.

“Are you actually complaining about killing trees right now?”

Her companion looked insulted. “I wouldn’t expect you to care about something you consider so trivial. But believe me, you’ll be sorry when the world is an empty wasteland and your kind has destroyed every last living thing.”

“Uh huh.” 

“You have no _idea_ what sort of power you could hold if you weren’t so shallow.”

Ecco wanted to say that whatever the girl was mad about wasn’t _her_ fault, and she shouldn’t be the brunt of these accusations, but in all honesty, she couldn’t bring herself to care. It only served to spur the other on. 

“True power.” Producing a tiny vial of perfume from her sleeve, the girl let several of the droplets land on her wrists and rubbed them together. “But of course, you don’t see it.”

"Are you trying to sell something to me?” Ecco asked blankly, and the red-haired girl frowned, more displeased than ever.

“Like I said, you refuse to see the possibilities.”

_What the hell?_

“Can you please leave me alone?” Her irritation was beginning to build at this point. The oppressive weight of resignation from before wasn’t so bad anymore, and the small part of her mind that refused to stop hoping was back again. Now that the hollowness inside her had begun to recede, she remembered the existence of other emotions, including annoyance. “I don’t want to hear about whatever you’re trying to say.”

Crossing her arms, the other girl shrugged. She didn’t look pleased, but she could tell by Ecco’s tone and expression that continuing the conversation was pointless. “Fine. Don’t blame me when the world ends.”

_As if it already hasn’t._ Ecco retorted silently, listening to the stranger retreat from the rooftop they were on. She turned back to staring out over the city, realizing her head wasn’t so clouded anymore. In fact, she could almost bring herself to think that maybe this wasn’t completely the end of everything.

She knew it wasn’t much, and she knew the momentary optimism would inevitably desert her sooner or later, but it was enough for now.

It was enough to stay alive one more day.

She glanced over her shoulder, watching the other girl stalking off silently, and the darkness in her eyes faded a little bit more.

But only a little bit.

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + 

“Alfred doesn’t understand.” Bruce’s jawline tensed as he leaned one shoulder against the side of the half-demolished building. Long shadows of the late evening cast themselves over him and Selina as they stood on the abandoned sidewalk, their paths having crossed by pure coincidence on Bruce’s part and careful orchestration on Selina’s. “Jim doesn’t either. They think I should have…they don’t think he should be kept alive. If you can call it alive.” He added under his breath.

“No one understands, Bruce.” She stared straight past him, her expression hard and unforgiving. “I don’t think even _you_ do.”

“All I want…” He cleared his throat, scuffing one foot back and forth on the ground, “All I want is to see all loose ends of this situation tied up. And in the right way, too.”

“You know what would have been _right,_ Bruce?” Selina’s voice was growing sharper now. “Realizing right away that he was gone, and not continuing to drag yourself into something you don’t want anymore. At least, something I don’t _think_ you want.” Her gaze was accusatory. Bruce looked away.

“I don’t want it. Trust me, Selina, I want this to be over, too.”

“Then you shouldn’t have started something new.” she shot back, not willing to give up the argument for his sake. Bruce frowned.

“This isn’t new. This is just the most acceptable conclusion. All I’m doing is—”

“Don’t lie to me, Bruce. Or yourself.” Her expression was one of distaste now. “We both know that you can’t bear to realize this was over the moment he fell into those chemicals and his brain got fried.” Bruce’s momentary flinch didn’t escape her notice. “You’re obsessed, and you won’t admit it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Stop. Just stop it.” She placed on hand flat against his chest, and Bruce wasn’t sure if she was reaching out for him or holding him back. “It’s a part of you, Bruce. It always has been.”

“What do you mean?”

“The _fight.”_ She emphasized the word with a nod of her head, catching his gaze and not letting him look away. “You’ve always needed to fight against something, Bruce, because you’re never satisfied with the world as it is. You know there is always something _wrong,_ and you want to take it down. And when that thing becomes a person, and you can find that person and _destroy_ them…” She left the sentence lingering, but the meaning was clear.

_That’s what you want._

_It’s what you think you need._

Bruce shivered. It was the exact thing he himself had come to realize within the past week.

“And with Jeremiah,” Selina spoke the name like a curse, and Bruce’s expression grew dark, “it was always different. In some twisted way, it was _better_ for you.” She hated saying that, but this was a rare moment of honesty between them, and if she was going to force him to tell the truth, she would, too. No matter how much she didn’t want to believe it. “Because you could be angry at him, and he deserved it. He was your friend, and he ruined everything you had. You were _supposed_ to be angry.”

“I just wanted things to be done right.” he muttered. 

“I know. It’s called justice, Bruce.” He looked up at that. “We’ve talked about this before.”

“So you understand that I have to do this.”

“I understand why you are. I don’t think you should. But,” she shrugged, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, despite the million emotions teeming just below the surface, “that’s clearly not up to me.”

She turned away abruptly and ran off, her steps light and nearly silent. Bruce took a step after her, then his shoulders slumped and he let her go. He had already made such a mess of everything, he couldn’t afford to cause any more problems.

All he wanted to do was escape.

_Disappear._

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his forehead against the cold concrete wall beside him. He imagined he was far away from Gotham, far away from the memories and mistakes and choices he’d made. 

Somewhere he could run away to, become someone new.

_Hide from all of this._

His hands closed into fists and he dug his nails into his palms, listening to the sound of his breathing in the silence.

_I have to get out of this city._

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

“That’s good news, Jim.”

“It is.” Jim Gordon didn’t look Bruce in the eye, focusing instead on the transmitter radio in front of him. “If everything goes well, we’ll have contact with the mainland within twenty-four hours. They’ll send in some choppers and get to work on cleaning out the river.

Bruce nodded, feeling empty inside. He was glad that the fighting in Gotham was over, of course, and that they would finally be in contact with the outside world again. It was all he had wanted…there was no disputing the fact.

_So why do you feel like you’re missing something?_

“Hopefully we can reconstruct Wayne Enterprises.” Jim continued conversationally, and Bruce nodded mutely, the memory of the towering skyscraper that had housed his parents’ company crashing to the ground. In the moment, on the last day before the fighting ended, it had seemed like the only thing to do to buy time for Jim and the others to hold back the hostile forces they had overcome, but in retrospect, it sent a twinge of regret through his heart.

Everything associated with the Wayne name was now gone.

The manor was in ruins, the Enterprises had been demolished…and Bruce didn’t like to think about _how_ he’d gone about the latter.

How he’d used the remaining energy bombs that had been kept in the basement of the building for further inspection.

How he had, in the end, done the very thing he knew Jeremiah would have done, given the chance.

" _You need me.”_

“No.” he murmured, trying to push away the thought. Jim finally looked up, quirking one eyebrow.

“You don’t want it rebuilt?”

Bruce felt his face flush. Had he spoken aloud? Was it coming to this, trying to ward off his thoughts with such intent that he became unable to separate reality from his memories? 

_Are you losing your mind?_

He shuddered.

_You have to get out of here._

_Run away, escape, get as far away as possible from it all. Leave it all behind._

Jim was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“I didn’t mean that.” Bruce finally responded, finding his voice again. “Guess I was just thinking out loud about something else.”

“Hm.”

They said nothing for a long minute.

“If all goes well, maybe we can begin reconstruction within the month.” Jim examined the radio antennae. “Of course, if you’re willing to oversee—”

“I’m leaving Gotham, Jim.” The words tore from his throat before he could stop them, and Bruce tensed in the moment of silence following his declaration, staring uncertainly at the police captain, who stared back.

“What?”

“I’m leaving the city.” Bruce chose his words carefully…this was the first time he’d even truly thought about it. The urge to escape from Gotham had been clawing at his mind for a while now, but he hadn’t dared voice those thoughts until now. He didn’t want to admit his own cowardice, to himself or anyone else. Because he _was_ a coward if he couldn’t stay here and face everything he was afraid to confront. But now that he had spoken it aloud, there was no turning back, and if he couldn’t commit to anything else in his life, he could at least commit to this.

“Why?” Jim asked carefully, and Bruce stared at the ground.

“I just…I need a break. From…from everything.” Jim sensed the reluctance tinging his words, and tried to reason with him. To make them both satisfied with the outcome of Bruce’s decision.

“Bruce _,_ Gotham needs you.”

He shook his head with absolute certainty. “No. It doesn’t need me now. The people have _you,_ Jim, and they know you’ll look out for them.”

“I do the ground work. You know that. But you…you’re the figurehead to this city. You give the people hope.”

“I’m not sure I’m the one to look to for hope.” Bruce said quietly. “And anyway, you just became the hero of Gotham. You’ve saved it from complete self-destruction. Got us back on the road to contact with the mainland. I’m not needed here, Jim.”

“But you might be.” the police captain argued, unwilling to give up the subject. “Bruce, consider your family’s company. Think about the people who work for it. You’ve only just recently saved it from complete corruption. Don’t you think you ought to be here to see that doesn’t happen again?”

Bruce’s lips quirked into an ironic smile at that. “If I recall correctly, it was only a few months ago when you told me not to get involve with adult affairs.”

“And it was also a few months ago when I allowed you—I _asked_ you—to risk your life at the hands of a total maniac who wanted to kill you in order to save hostages.” Jim didn’t say Jerome’s name aloud, but they both knew he was referring to the hold-up in the middle of the city when the former Arkham escapee had kidnapped Gotham’s leaders. Bruce sighed.

“Jim—”

The captain held up his hands, forestalling any further explanation. “I only thought you should know, Bruce. I thought you should know how much this city looks up to you. And you have power here, being a Wayne.”

Bruce frowned at that.

_Being a Wayne has only ever gotten me into trouble._

If he wasn’t a Wayne, he wouldn’t have ever believed he needed to abandon his friends to keep them safe.

He wouldn’t have been dragged into the darkness Ra’s al Ghul had orchestrated, and broken the trust of people he used to care about.

He wouldn’t have been entangled in the web of lies and blackmail that Theo Galavan had drawn them all into, and he wouldn’t feel the constant guilt that had lingered in the back of his mind for three years that he should have been someone else, he could have stopped…all that…if only he wasn’t Bruce Wayne.

And maybe, if his parents weren’t Waynes, they wouldn’t have been shot and murdered in an alley, and Bruce wouldn’t have been left alone, and Alfred never would have thought he needed a friend to keep him out of total isolation.

The emptiness inside him was more like an ache now. 

_I don’t want to be Bruce Wayne anymore._

“I just need some time.” he said aloud, the words sounding blatantly insincere. Because there was so much more to it than that, but he wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it. Jim was already confused about so much he had done, and trying to explain anything else would only make it worse. “Some time to think things over.”

_Some time away from all this._

Bruce wished there was some way to explain that he wasn’t a complete coward. He wasn’t running away, not exactly. He was’t being irresponsible.

But he wasn’t sure how to say that, because he wasn’t sure it was true.

They were both silent for a long moment, watching each other.

Then Jim turned away, disappointment clouding his expression but understanding in his eyes.

“If that’s what you feel like you need.” He was trying to placate Bruce’s feelings now, not wanting the boy to think that he completely disapproved. After all, forcing the responsibilities of a grown man onto the son of Gotham’s most renowned elite was a lot to ask. And even though Jim had every bit of faith in the other’s capabilities, he didn’t want to trap him into something he didn’t want. “If you come back, I’ll be waiting for you. The whole city will be.” He said it with a smile, but Bruce didn’t see it, as the man was facing away from him.

“Thank you, Jim.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and the police captain tilted his head to hear it.

“What for?” he asked, turning one of the buttons on the radio to tune into the transmitter. There was silence from the boy as static filled the air, and Jim glanced over one shoulder. “Bruce—”

His eyes narrowed in confusion.

He was standing alone in the office of the precinct, and there was no sign of Bruce ever having been there in the first place. 

The only evidence that there had been someone else in the room was the faint flutter of the curtains alongside the open window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Ivy will be relevant to this story and I'm not just including her so I can have as many Gotham characters packed into this fic as possible...you'll see her again!
> 
> Also, as far as the 10-year time jump goes, I'm probably going to get through that pretty quickly in the next few chapters (I mean, it took me about 300k words to get through 4-ish years in these first three fics, so imagine how long ten years would take XD...also there's not going to be much action during that time, so I really don't want to spend too much of the story on that. I'll definitely include some of the important points within those ten years so it's not just a complete time jump like they did in the show, but it'll probably be pretty condensed in the next few chapters.)
> 
> On that note! this fic probably only has like 5 chapters left at the most (idk for sure since I haven't written them yet lol) but there WILL be one more fic in the series following this! (I promise this series won't go on forever haha I just really like writing it). It's going to be post-s5 finale, so there's no canon to match it up to, but you'll definitely start seeing the classic Batman lore being incorporated if you stick around to read it :)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and leave a comment letting me know what you think! <3


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

_Two Years Later_

Bruce flexed his hands experimentally as he blinked the sweat from his eyes and reached for the phone that had just begun to ring. Picking it up, he returned to the punching bag he’d just been pummeling, adjusting it on the hook that hung it from the ceiling.

“Alfred.”

“Master Bruce, are you alright? You sound somewhat breathless.”

Bruce smiled into the phone. “Just working out. Is everything okay back home? Why are you calling?”

“Oh, right.” There was a sound of rustling papers on the other line, then the butler’s voice again. “Well, as you know, the manor is nearly finished with construction, and I just wanted to be sure that the, ahem, _basement…”_ He hesitated, words trailing off.

Bruce broke in, “It’s all right, this is a secure line.”

“Ah, thank goodness for that.” Alfred replied. “Well, it seems that I’ve been able to use those mechanism plans you sent me to create a sliding track for the fireplace, and as long as the fuse is disconnected when it’s set in motion, there should be no trouble accessing the stairway behind it. A good job, that. It wasn't even dented, not even when the bloody house fell on it.”

“Built for durability, I guess.” Bruce shrugged. “I’m glad it’s all working out.”

“Yes, I just wanted to check with you that the fireplace is still your preferred method of accessing the cave down there. It seems to be the most efficient way, and Lucius even mentioned the other day that there’s a possibility we could install a little makeshift elevator to get down even quicker.”

“I spoke with him about that.” Bruce sat down in one of the wing chairs in the apartment he was staying at, staring out the window at the snow-dusted mountains outside. It was a drastic change of pace from the city, but one he had gotten used to. “I think we should add it.”

“Very well, I’ll make a note of that.” There was silence for a moment as Alfred jotted down Bruce’s words, then resumed, “Anyway, it's all going according to your wishes. The computer’s up and running down there, and Arkham has been so kind as to allow us access to their files.”

Bruce caught a hint of amusement in the older man’s tone and grinned. “They _allowed_ you?”

“Well, Lucius happened to have a friend who works at Arkham who was so kind as to give him an access key to their computer files, shall we say.” Alfred chuckled. “Whatever the case may have been, you now have all the necessary information uploaded to the cave computer system.”

“That’s great, Alfred. Give yourself a raise.” Bruce smiled, somewhat distracted as he heard a knock on the door and got up to open it, coming face-to-face with the landlord delivering the mail. Taking the stack of papers and giving the man a grateful nod, he retreated back to the wing chair. 

“No need, Master Bruce. I have access to all the Wayne bank accounts.”

Bruce laughed at that. “Go buy yourself something nice then.”

“Oh, come now, Bruce, I’m not one of your young ladies you pick up and drop week-by-week and dump a few thousand on them to placate their broken hearts.”

“ _Alfred,_ don’t be ridiculous. I’m here to train and to think things over, not to find love.” Bruce rolled his eyes, plucking at a loose string on the arm of the chair.

“Well, that’s good, because I know of a particular young lady back here in Gotham who would personally claw out the eyes of anyone you brought back with you from your travels. Not in a figurative way, either.”

Bruce’s smile disappeared, and his expression became almost regretful as he stared out the window, the letters in his hands forgotten. For a moment, he looked like he was eighteen again, battling the inner turmoil that whispered for him to leave the city, yet tried to persuade him to stay. “How is Selina doing?”

“As well as can be expected, considering you left her two years ago without so much as a goodbye.” 

He winced at that. “You don't have to bring that up every time I mention her, Alfred.”

“It really was inexcusable of you, Master B.”

“I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave if I spoke with her.” His voice was quiet now. “You know that, too.”

“All I can say,” the butler responded diplomatically, “is that we will all be very happy when you decide to come back home someday. Gotham is waiting for you.”

“I know.” Bruce tore his gaze away from the view outside. “And when it needs me again, I’ll be back.” He looked down, flipping through the papers he held in his hands. “You have my word, Alfred. You all do.”

\+ + + + + + + + + + + +

She pushed aside the overhanging strands of creeping vines and branches, cringing away from what looked dangerously like something sharp. It had taken her a while to find this place…no one had wanted to tell her where it was, but in the end, she’d come to realize it was hiding in plain sight, shrouded behind the long line of weeping willow trees that skirted the edge of Gotham Park.

Ecco tore away the final curtain of shrubbery that shielded the place, housed in a hollow surrounded by wrought-iron fencing and backing up to the public cemetery, and looked around.

The space was empty.

Her face fell.

_What were you expecting? She’s not here, so why should she have left anything behind?_

Shaking her head at her own shortsightedness, Ecco backed out of the place, her face turning stony with resolution.

_Well, you have to find her, one way or another._

_If you’re going to keep going like this, you have to be doing something useful. And this is the only way to do_ that.

She tossed her hair out of her face, smoothing it back into the tight bun she was accustomed to wearing (after everything that had happened two years ago, she’d gone back to trying to look as nondescript as ever…so far, she’d eluded the police, and it helped to not have any established identity in this city aside from “former proxy of Jeremiah Valeska for business arrangements”. Still, it was best to be careful, even if it _had_ been the better part of two years and she’d gone uncaught.)

And besides, with what she had to do now, she was essentially walking straight into their open arms.

_But that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, as long as you can keep doing your job. That’s always been the purpose of everything, hasn’t it?_

_The only difference now is the job itself._

Guilt surged through her at that. She’d balked at this prospect for the past year, and even now, it took everything she had to keep moving forward. Pressing on, even if she knew there was no point to any of it.

And that was the worst part.

Because she knew that, no matter what she did, she couldn’t _make_ him come back.

_You act as if he’s coming back at all._

Doubt darkened her thoughts, a question whispering over and over until she couldn’t ignore it. It was the same question that had echoed itself through her head ever since that horrible night at Ace Chemicals, the question that had eaten away at the remaining threads of her sanity until she no longer even felt like who she used to be.

_Why are you doing this?_

Ecco’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Coming back, even after all this time, didn’t lessen the guilt. It didn’t make her feel better about anything.

It only made her question with all the more doubt, why she had let herself come back.

_It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you. You’ve always known, ever since the beginning, that you’d do anything for him._

_And no matter what happens, you’ll never leave._

_Not even if you’re the only one left._

\+ + + + + + + + + 

A gloved hand reached with practiced dexterity past the wires that cluttered the inside of the exposed security system panel for the Gotham Museum of Art. After a long moment of searching for the right cable, the hand closed around it, and a faint snipping sound broke the silence. To anyone who was watching, they would have noticed the metal, needle-tipped nails attached to the ends of the gloves, like the claws of a cat. 

The owner of those gloved hands straightened up slowly, casting a wary glance around before pulling a black hood over its head and pushing open the heavy wooden door that led to the nearest exhibit. The sign that sat in the abandoned hall of the museum, propped up on a stand by the doorway, read _“Exotic Jewels.”_

Selina’s eyes glittered as she read the words.

_Jackpot._

Sliding inside the pitch-black room, she made her way carefully through, pressed against the wall to avoid being caught on the security cameras. The alarms had been disabled, but the cameras were still on, and chances were, someone was probably watching.

These were priceless gems, after all.

Her expression lit up with satisfaction when she saw the first display, a diamond necklace arranged on a velvet stand. With the tips of her gloved fingers, she lifted off the glass box that encased it, setting it on the ground and keeping her head low so, if she was caught on the security cameras, she wouldn’t be identified.

The necklace was heavy in her hands, and Selina smiled. This one was particularly beautiful…she might even keep it for herself. Sure, there weren’t many places she could wear it, but then again, she spent most of her time alone or at the Sirens club these days.

And no one cared if she wore stolen goods _there._

Slipping the jewels into the pouch she wore on her belt, Selina replaced the glass case (she preferred to leave the scene of the crime exactly the same, minus the missing valuables…it baffled the police even more and she loved watching their bemused faces on the television the next day) and backed out of the room. The door slid shut behind her, and she inspected the handle for any telltale smudges of a handprint. Of course, there wasn’t one—that was why she wore gloves—but she always checked, anyway.

Her footsteps didn’t make a sound as she ran out of the building and down the giant stone steps outside. The cool autumn air brought a tinge of color to her cheeks, and she pulled the hood down to her shoulders to let the breeze ruffle her hair. Patting the stowed-away necklace at her side, Selina melted into the shadows with the skill of a seasoned cat burglar and disappeared from sight.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

“I remember you.” Ivy Pepper (or, as the Arkham inmates and some of the cheaper tabloid articles in the city were referring to her, Poison Ivy) lounged on the standard-issue Arkham cot, twirling the delicate vine of a potted plant around one finger as she stared at Ecco through the bars. The latter shifted back and forth on her feet.

“Yeah. We, uh, talked on the rooftop a little while ago.”

“A little while ago?” Ivy repeated sarcastically. “I think you mean two whole years ago, but those are petty details.”

“That being said,” Ecco continued, intent on getting her point across, “I need your help.”

The redhead narrowed her eyes. “My help? We don’t even know each other and you’re already asking me for favors? Besides, you’re not the one locked up in the asylum. Although you should be, by all accounts.”

“Listen, I don't have a lot of time.” Ecco said impatiently, glancing over her shoulder. “The guards don’t know I’m here, I got in through one of the back doors.” She didn’t mention to Ivy that she hadn’t been in the asylum for a whole year now, not since Jeremiah had been moved here and she’d seen him for the last time.

Well, not the last time anymore.

But it had _felt_ like the last time, back then. And she hadn’t been able to force herself to come back here ever since. It had only been a painful reminder of everything that used to exist.

_And you’re a coward._

“You still haven’t answered my question. What do you want?” Ivy asked, raising one eyebrow. Ecco licked her lips nervously.

“I was reading about you in the newspaper when you were arrested last month.” she began, and Ivy nodded.

“Most people did. I hope they put a good picture of me in there. My mugshot is _terrible._ But I don’t expect these Arkham killjoys to acknowledge that.”

“It was a good picture.” Ecco assured her. “But it was the part about the toxin you made that interested me.”

“Oh, please, _toxin_ is such an ugly word. I think you mean the special perfume I’ve created for the specific purpose of poisoning people in my way.” Ivy smiled widely.

Ecco nodded. “Yes. Call it what you want. But that’s the part I was looking at.”

“Can I ask you a question?” the other cut in, setting the plant aside. “And I want you to answer it seriously.”

“Okay…” Ecco was growing impatient, but it was more important she get what she needed, so there was no other option but to play along. 

“Have you finally moved on from Valeska’s death?” Ivy asked bluntly, and Ecco’s eyes widened at that, repressed years of worry and stoic certainty in her beliefs rushing back into her expression. “I mean, when I saw you last, you were pretty cut up about it. I’m assuming you’ve come to terms with reality.”

“The _reality_ is that he’s still alive, and no, I’m not giving up on him.” Ecco shot back venomously, her eyes sparking with fury. “I don't care what you, or anyone else, says. He's still alive, I _know_ he’s alive somewhere in there, and even if the rest of the world refuses to see that, I won’t.”

“Yeah, well, maybe no one else wants to see it because he’s an insane criminal who tried to destroy the city.” Ivy pointed out. “ _I_ wouldn’t want to encourage a return on his part, either.”

“Well, this isn’t about you. It’s what _I’m_ doing, and it’s what needs to happen so I can save _him.”_

“Do you like being a servant?” Ivy snorted disparagingly, and Ecco frowned. “I mean, come on, you completely dropped out of sight for two years to mope and lay around, presumably being sad about the dead guy who employed you. And now you’re running around trying to find some way to _help_ him, even though he’s still dead.”

“No, he’s _not.”_ Ecco protested helplessly, trying very hard to keep her expression calm. “He’s not dead, and that’s why I need your help.”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that? I remember after the bridges blew and you were parading around Gotham with that clown, always at his beck and call like some sort of mute harlequin from five hundred years ago. You know you’re better than that.”

She crossed her arms. “You don't even know me.”

“Yeah, and you don't know me, so why are you here?”

“Because I need something from you!” Ecco’s frustration was almost at a breaking point, and Ivy sat up, rolling her eyes and clearly bored with baiting the other girl to annoy her.

“Fine. What do you want?”

Ecco leaned closer, her voice dropping as she glanced around to make sure the conversation wasn’t being eavesdropped on. “I want some of the tox—” she saw the look on Ivy’s face and corrected herself, “—perfume you’ve made.”

“What for?”

“To get a job here.” she explained, as if it was obvious. 

“Here? You mean here, as in Arkham?”

“Yes.”

“As what? A janitor?”

Ecco glared. “It may _interest_ you to know that I have all the qualifications to be a registered nurse, and there just happens to be an open slot for a new employer here that I’m trying to fill.”

“And how are you going to do that? You’re a wanted criminal too, you know.”

“Well, _obviously._ I’m not going to use my real name or anything stupid like that. And I’m very good at faking identifications.”

“Huh.” Ivy looked mildly interested, but only mildly. “And why are you trying to come here? Arkham’s really not the must fun atmosphere.” She paused, realization washing across her face. “Oh. You want to keep an eye on your dead…sorry, _almost_ dead friend, don’t you?”

“I just…it’s my job.” Ecco looked away. “It’s been my job for a long time, and I can’t abandon it now.”

“Well, you _did_ abandon it, if I’m interpreting what you’re saying correctly.” Ivy said drily. “You had nothing to do with him for what? A whole year?”

“But I’m here now.” she snapped, clenching her hands into fists. “And if you’re not going to give me what I wanted to know—”

“Relax, sweetheart, don’t lose your head.” Ivy smiled lazily up at Ecco, running one hand through her long red hair. “I’ll consider it, if you give me something in return.”

“Anything I can.” Ecco fought to keep her voice steady.

“The keys to this cell.” Ivy stood up, wrapping her hands around the metal bars and staring at Ecco through them. “A very small price to pay for what I’m offering, all said and done.”

Ecco hesitated for a moment. She knew she would be able to get the keys one way or another…Arkham’s security was deplorable, and if she was going to get a job here, it would be a cinch to get the job done. Her momentary pause was directed instead at the fact _she was really doing this,_ she was going to infiltrate Arkham’s system, she was going to put herself right back into the mess she’d almost escaped from altogether.

But there had never been a time when she truly thought she would be free.

She had always known she would return to him.

_Even if it never makes a difference._

Ivy was still watching her, waiting expectantly for an answer, and Ecco nodded slowly, not realizing until that moment she had been holding her breath.

“Okay.” Her heart twisted painfully, and something like fear rushed through her…facing reality wasn’t an easy task, especially not now. But she had committed to her job, with just as much dedication as she had nearly seven years ago, back when Bruce Wayne had hired her as a personal assistant to his reclusive friend who she would give anything to see again, to speak to again, to fall in love with all over again.

_He has to come back._

“Okay.” Ivy said in response, and Ecco jumped, startled out of her thoughts. They watched each other for a long moment, then the former spoke up, her emerald eyes scanning Ecco’s face as if testing her to see if she could be depended upon to return the favor. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

Bruce’s eyes were dark as he read the words on the paper he held over and over again, the rest of the world fading out of focus as his attention became fully fixed on the few short lines in front of him.

He’d put off opening his mail until later that evening, having wanted to concentrate on the new meditation skills he’d been learning recently, and now, he was doubly glad he had done so. He knew that, if he’d read the letter he was holding now _,_ he never would have been able to compose his mind to even _hope_ for any sort of meditative state.

It was from one of the contractors he’d employed to oversee the construction of the new Wayne Enterprises building, written in small, precise handwriting. Usually, those types of letters were sent to Alfred, who would approve them before the construction continued, and Bruce hadn't recognized the sender for a moment, having never received one before.

But once he unfolded the paper and read the words, the heaviness he’d thought was gone had closed around his heart again.

_“Dear Mr. Wayne,”_ it read, _“now that the exterior of the Wayne Enterprises building has completed construction, we wanted to contact you to see if you have any preference on the interior design. In particular, we are in the process of embedding the plaques of accredited former Wayne Enterprises employees who contributed to the company in the past. If you recall, they were previously displayed in the foyer of the old building, and will be placed in the same spot for the new one, if you approve.”_

Bruce knew what was coming. He had been able to tell after the first few sentences. Until now, he’d nearly forgotten about it, having somehow pushed it from his memory as a coping mechanism, perhaps. Drawing a curtain over things from the past that were too painful to access, too laden with implications that had only grown heavier over the years.

But it hadn’t taken him long to know what the letter was going to ask.

_“All this goes to say, Mr. Wayne, is the question of whether you would prefer for us to re-install_ all _the plaques and commemorations, or if there are any you would rather not display? Considering past situations, we wanted to consult with you on the matter before proceeding.”_

Bruce had stopped reading then, and had been staring blankly at the opposite wall ever since, elbows resting against the surface of the polished wooden desk and gaze vacant as memories swarmed through his head.

_“It’s a surprise.”_

He remembered the eyes that had stared at him, the suspicion hidden in them feeling like a stab to the heart. He didn’t like to think about _why_ they were so suspicious, didn’t like to remember that his carelessness was responsible for the renewed hostility his friend had toward the world. 

Didn’t like to think about the guilt that had eaten away at his soul ever since what had happened with Theo Galavan and everything that came after.

_But you know everything that happened between you two was a long time coming._

_It was fated to happen before you even met Jeremiah in the first place._

They were always going to become enemies, no matter what happened along the way.

Bruce wasn’t sure that realization was any less painful than the guilt.

_“I hate surprises.”_ Before he could consider either thought anymore, he was dragged back into his own memory.

_“Well, this is a good one."_

He remembered Jeremiah’s face, his eyes huge and unbelieving behind his glasses, as they’d stood in the Wayne Enterprises lobby, in front of the wall of plaques, the list of names stretching up higher than either of them could see.

_“What do you think?”_

_“Bruce, it’s…”_

“It’s you.” Bruce whispered aloud, his throat impossibly dry. _The real you._

_The one I always wanted you to be._

_“Just you, because you’re the one who deserves the credit.”_

_Murderer._

_Criminal._

_Insane lunatic, just like his brother…_

_“You are not your brother.”_ His own voice in his head interrupted his thoughts.

Sometimes Bruce wished there was no such thing as memory.

He looked back down at the letter in his hands, and automatically began searching for a pen in one of the desk drawers. He ignored the way his hands were trembling, or the way his jaw was clenched so tightly that his entire face had begun to ache.

Before he even wrote a single word in reply to the letter, he already knew what his answer would be.

It was non-negotiable, really.

No matter how badly he wished it was.

_Because you just can’t let him go._

Bruce glared down at the paper as if it was at fault for his uncertainty. Why couldn’t he simply tell the contractors to replace all the plaques except for the one with Jeremiah’s name? That way, he wouldn’t have any sort of reminder left in his life of his enemy. 

_But that plaque wasn't made for an enemy._

_It was made for your best friend._

Bruce knew this wasn’t about the technical details of whether or not Wayne Enterprises should include the plaque or not. Not anymore. It was something deeper, something that stung whenever he dared think about it because it was something that would never go away, no matter how hard he tried. A desperate, reluctant, _burning_ need to cling on to the final scraps of what remained of the friend he had known.

As if he was trying to replace all memory of the Jeremiah he had left behind. 

And trying to only remember the parts that didn’t hurt so badly.

_Pathetic._

But Bruce knew no amount of self-deprecation would change the outcome of what he would say. That had never been in question.

And he wished that it had.

He picked up the pen that had fallen from his hand and clicked it open, hesitating before it touched the paper.

_Nothing has to change because of what happened._

_That’s in the past. Far, far in the past. Why dwell on it any longer? Altering things will only remind you of times you’d rather forget._

He wasn’t sure that was really the reason he was even considering this, though.

No, he _knew_ that wasn’t the reason.

Bruce gritted his teeth together. _Even now, even halfway across the world, you can't escape._

Well, maybe he should stop running, then.

_Just tell them. Tell them what you want. It’s your company, it’s your life, and you don't have to change it because of bad memories._

_Because of one person’s betrayal._

It hadn’t been betrayal, though, had it?

He wasn’t sure what it had been.

_“I’m the answer to your life’s…”_

_That doesn’t matter._

Bruce lifted his chin resolutely. There was no harm in returning everything to where it had been before. No harm in crediting work to people who used to exist. Because Jeremiah Valeska—he hadn’t spoken that name aloud once within the past two years, and only allowed himself to think it when absolutely necessary— _had_ been a part of the Wayne business, even if that had been years ago, back when he was living under another name and another life, back before Bruce had even known him yet.

_That’s the time you want to remember._

_The good things._

Well, now he _knew_ his hesitation on this matter stemmed entirely from self-indulgence.

_But does that really matter?_

_It won’t harm anyone, giving credit where credit is due. And it would be recognizing the Jeremiah who used to exist, not the criminal who tried to destroy Gotham._

_The Jeremiah who used to be your friend._

It was settled.

He drew a deep breath, ignoring the way it shuddered in his chest and the way his hand had begun to ache from holding the pen so tightly, and wrote his response quickly enough that he wouldn’t have time to regret it.

_“Leave everything as it was before.”_

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

“Sorry everything’s such a mess.” An Arkham official, one that Ecco didn’t know or recognize, shoved a pile of paperwork off her desk distractedly. “You may have heard there was a breakout last night.”

“Oh?” Ecco stared at her, wide-eyed.

“Ivy Pepper.” The woman brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Can’t figure out how she did it. Unless she had outside help.”

“Hmm.” Ecco nodded sympathetically, nothing in her expression revealing her part in the breakout. Or that she had been the _only_ outside help Ivy had, for that matter. “I hope it’s settled quickly."

“Yes, me too.” She sat down, straightening the collar of her uniform and sighing, before letting a fake smile land on her face. “So, you want to work here.” Ecco sensed the silent question behind her words, _“Why would you dedicate yourself to this hellhole?”_

She sat up straighter. “Yes. I’d like a job, and I heard you were looking for employees.”

The woman began sorting through the paperwork in front of her. “Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

Ecco smiled as naturally as she could, unable to repress the jolt of nerves that rushed through her at that. She had no qualms with altering her identity, or creating a whole new past for herself…she was smart, and she could fool anyone if she really wanted to. Still, there was something unnerving about dedicating herself to an entirely new life that she had just made up the other day.

She forced her voice and hands to remain steady as she dug through the purse she’d recently stolen and pulled out the identification papers she’d forged the week before.

“Harleen Quinzel.”

A wry smile quirked at the corners of her lips.

_If Ivy knew she’d inspired that one, who knows what she’d think._

The woman raised one eyebrow, looking over the list of references Ecco had just handed her. “That’s quite the name. Where’re you from?”

“Right here, in Gotham.” Ecco answered smoothly. “I’ve been away for a while, though.”

The woman looked up scrutinizingly, studying the other’s face. Ecco’s eye twitched and she leaned further back in her seat. It was impossible for anyone to recognize her, wasn’t it? But still, she didn't want to risk it.

“Why do you want to work at Arkham?”

“I guess I just felt like it would be a good job for me.” Ecco knew that was probably the worst answer she could have given, but she had been momentarily put on guard by the other woman’s stare, and her nerves were a bit shaken. 

“You realize the inmates here are dangerous criminals?”

“Like I said, I’m from Gotham.” Ecco forced a smile. “I know all about Arkham.”

“What sort of experience do you have?”

_Oh, here we go._ She knew it was too risky to have forged previous experience on her false resumé…especially at a place like Arkham and the extensive background checks that were required. She felt in her pocket for the vial Ivy had given her the day before, and cleared her throat.

“Not much professional experience,” she watched as the woman’s expression turned to one of disapproval, “but I’m willing to learn whatever I need to.”

_I’m willing to do anything._

_I just need to see him again._

_I need to see my job through to the end._

Her companion shook her head with finality, her mouth drawn into a thin line. “I’m sorry, Miss Quinzel,” Ecco was almost startled at the use of the alias, and had to keep from flinching, “but I really don’t know…”

_Time for plan B._

She flicked open the vial of perfume, her movement almost too quick to follow as she dropped it onto the desktop, one hand flying to her mouth a moment later. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t…” Some of the toxin inside had begun to drip out onto the papers, and Ecco gathered them up, shuffling them in order and making sure to keep them far from her face, before handing them back to the other woman. The latter took them with a look of irritation, glancing closely at the writing to make sure it wasn’t blurred out.

Ecco held her breath.

_If this toxin doesn’t work, I’m going to kill Ivy Pepper._

When the woman looked back up, her eyes seemed hazy and unfocused. Ecco stared back, biting down hard on her lip. She didn’t bother to disguise her expression anymore.

_Please, please, please work._

The woman smiled, almost dazedly.

“What were we saying?” she asked, her voice scratching in her throat as she spoke. Ecco watched her carefully, hesitating a moment before answering.

“You were just mentioning how you wanted to give me this job.”

_It has to work._

The silence between them seemed to stretch into eternity. Ecco pressed her hands together, hoping they weren’t shaking. If this went wrong, it would jeopardize—no, completely destroy, most likely—any chances of ever seeing Jeremiah again. 

And even if she could never make him come back, she couldn’t let herself abandon him.

_I said I’d always be there for you._

She was jerked out of her thoughts by the woman’s voice, and leaned forward expectantly. “Oh yes, of course.” Without looking at Ecco, she organized the false identification papers into a stack and set them on top of the other files that covered her desk. “So you are willing to take it?”

Ecco nodded, her voice momentarily deserting her as relief flooded her senses. _It worked, it really worked, you’ve made it in, and now…_

“Yes.” _Yes, I’ll take the job, it’s always been my job, because_ he’s _here, and I have to stay with him, I’ll do anything to stay with him._

She knew she would, even if it had taken her two years to come to terms with it.

_But you always knew you’d come back._

“Wonderful.” The woman’s voice was still distant, and she was clearly still in the grasp of the toxin. Ecco waited with bated breath as she was handed a liability form to sign, and as she picked up a nearby pen to sign her name, her hand trembled with nerves.

_You never should have left in the first place._

She remembered to sign the false name she had given…there wasn’t even a hint of hesitation in her expression. She’d been practicing.

_Coward._

_You_ did _leave him._

_Even if he didn’t know it. Even if he’ll never know. It doesn’t matter, because that’s not the point._

_He never really noticed you before anyway, did he?_

Ecco pressed her lips into a thin line.

She couldn’t think about that now.

Numbly, she handed the piece of paper back to the woman, who stuck it in an empty file folder and stood up, brushing off her skirt automatically. Ecco wondered how long it would take for the toxin to wear off. If anyone else around the asylum noticed one of their coworkers acting strangely, they would certainly be suspicious. This was Arkham after all…some of the most devious criminals in the city were housed here.

Words leapt to her throat before she could contemplate the possibilities any further. “Thank you. Do you mind if I show myself around?”

“Go ahead.” The woman motioned toward the door, and Ecco gave her a grateful nod. It truly seemed that luck was on her side this time. _Maybe things really will go according to plan._

She didn’t want to remember the last time she’d thought the same thing.

_That night…_

_Back at the chemical plant…_

She had been so _sure._

“Thanks.” she said again, hoping her voice sounded normal. “And thank you for this opportunity. I really am grateful for this job.” Every word burned in her mouth like she was swallowing poison.

_So sure we would win._

_So sure that it would be over, after that night._

Oh, it had been over. 

But not in any of the ways she had wanted.

“It’s not problem at all, Miss Quinzel.” _Right. That’s your name now._ The woman was still smiling dazedly. Ecco silently thanked Ivy for the toxin…she wouldn’t have gotten through the conversation without it. “I’ll give you a call later and let you know when you can start work.”

“Okay.” Ecco backed out of the office, closing the door cautiously behind her. The sound of inmates’ voices floated down the hall, hinting at the location of the rec room not too far away. She stared down the corridor for a long moment, wondering if she should simply leave. It was a tempting thought…it would give her at least a few more days to avoid the inevitable _(facing him after you betrayed him, after you left him alone for two years…two whole years, Ecco, you were here when he was moved to Arkham, but you didn't stay)_ but she had to do it. Had to do it _today._ Before she lost her nerve entirely.

The new system in the asylum arranged the cells in alphabetical order of the inmates. Ecco started off down the hallway, hands clenched into fists and face set in a stoic expression as her eyes darted to and from each placard on the wall beside the cell doors. Her lips moved as she read off the names silently, traveling deeper and deeper down the hall. 

It was eerily silent in this particular ward. She wondered what it was like for the woman she had just met with, having an office right next door to the line of cells of Gotham’s most wanted. Not that Ecco was afraid of them…when it came down to it, she had just as much reason to be in any of those cells, too…but it was just a strange thought.

_Stay focused._

She was nearly at the end of the hall now, and her steps slowed. Before she knew it, she was standing in front of the cell she was looking for, eyes fastened on the name typed onto the placard.

_Valeska, J._

She noticed, with a start, that the previous name had been scratched out to accommodate the current one. Five letters, blurred but still visible, and Ecco’s stomach twisted.

_Jerome._

They hadn’t even bothered to replace his brother’s name with his own.

Tears burned in her eyes.

_This was everything he was always afraid of._

She placed one hand on one of the bars, her fingers curling around it as she stared at the floor, willing her eyes to stay dry.

_You have to come back, you have to come back, you have to show them all that they’re wrong…_

_Prove to them that you’re better than they all said._

_I know you can._

_I know…_

But she _didn’t._

It was a struggle to force her gaze up from where it was fixed on the ground, but she finally did, staring into the darkness of the cell beyond, waiting with a creeping sort of dread for her eyes to adjust to the shadowy darkness.

_They've all left you, haven't they?_

She felt a sob rise to her throat.

_I did, too._

_I’m sorry…_

What did it matter now?

Ecco blinked, clearing her vision, and finally caught sight of the shadow-shrouded figure on the bed, huddled in the far side of the cell.

She couldn’t see his face, but she knew it was him.

Suddenly, the bars separating them seemed to burn against her hand like fire.

_I won’t leave you, I won’t, I won’t ever leave you, I promise…_

_I’m here now._

She tasted blood in her mouth and realized she’d bitten down much too hard on her lip.

_I’m here, and I won’t ever leave you again._

_No matter what I have to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next few chapters will probably continue as sort of vignettes throughout the next few years in the story, since nothing much is really going to happen for a little while (I thought about shortening the gap to five years, but for the story's sake I think it's going to stay ten, which will get explained why later). Anyway, once the plot starts picking up again, I'll start formatting the chapters the same way as the earlier ones, I just don't want to bore anyone with a storyline where nothing really happens for a long time, which is why it won't take terribly long to get through the ten years and to the point where the finale picks up.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if you can, leave a comment to let me know what you think! Any thoughts, criticisms, whatever are all welcome :)


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

_One Year Later_

Ecco stood in front of the partly-warped mirror of the apartment she’d rented on the outskirts of the Narrows, surveying her reflection as she clipped the Arkham standard-issue name tag to the lapel of her uniform. It had become a mindless procedure for the past twelve months: get up, go to work, come home. The only thing to break the monotony of each day that seemed to stretch into eternity was when she had a rare moment to stop by to see Jeremiah, even if it never amounted to anything.

So far, it hadn’t.

But that didn’t mean Ecco was going to leave.

She had suffered through a year of the most boring life she’d never thought she would have, and she would suffer through an eternity of more, if it meant she could be around _him_ from time to time.

He was all she had left.

And she was all _he_ had.

No, she wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at her own face in the mirror, scrutinizing every detail. It was fortunate the police had no records of her on hand, or pictures…sure, Gordon and some of the others had encountered her long in the past, before Jerome had broken out of Arkham with his insanity gas scheme, even, but that hadn’t been often, and no one had made any sort of attempt to accuse her of conspiring with Jeremiah during the time the bridges blew. For now, she was safe, and could continue her job under her new alias.

Well, she realized ruefully, it wasn’t exactly new anymore.

_It’s been a whole year._

Ecco didn’t like to think about that.

With a shallow sigh, she straightened the sleeves of the white nurse’s uniform she was wearing, gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, and turned away.

Like clockwork, the wistful, yearning look that hung in her eyes vanished as if it had never been there. It was quickly replaced with something neutral and friendly and almost vacant.

Once she stepped out the door, Ecco was gone.

It was only Harleen Quinzel, former psychiatry student from a small town out of state (she’d been careful to work out a detailed and believable past for her alter ego), with a passion for helping the inmates and no intention of doing anything that anyone would ever find suspicious at all.

Sometimes it became difficult to separate the two natures, especially when there was no one with whom she could truly be herself.

Sometimes she could barely remember who she really was anymore.

\+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The frozen wind, littered with needle-sharp shards of ice, brought a flush of color to Bruce’s face. He tightened the scarf around his features, pulling it taut against his skin until only his eyes were showing. He blinked rapidly, keeping his gaze low so the ice wouldn’t get in his eyes.

Trekking up a mountainside in the middle of winter might not have been the brightest idea, in hindsight.

The wind howled with a greater ferocity now, sounding like some sort of wild animal on the hunt for helpless prey. Bruce shuddered at the thought and tried to forget it…that was just the sort of things he _didn’t_ need right now. He’d spent the last year trying to push away the shadows that still persisted on lurking inside him, and morbid thoughts like those were no help at all.

He shut his eyes tightly for a moment and paused to catch his breath.

_What is this all for?_ he thought, a little cynically, as he resumed walking. The mountain was getting steeper, and he had only been on this path for an hour. He wasn’t trying to reach the top or anything of the sort…truth be told, he wasn’t sure _why_ he was doing this.

Well, if he was being honest, he did know.

At least partly.

_It’s an escape._

In some distorted way, his mind truly believed he could actually run away from his own problems. Back in the apartment, all alone, his thoughts had grown too loud for him. They’d been pressing in on all sides, indistinguishable in their quantity, but harsh and accusatory and even cruel. He wasn’t sure what they were saying to him—didn’t _want_ to know—but he could feel the guilt rising in his chest and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

He’d known he had to get out of there before his mind shut down altogether.

_And now you’re struggling through the snow on a mountain._

_And your thoughts are just as loud._

Bruce sucked in a breath through the scarf, feeling a thin layer of ice begin to form around his lips. It was a pitiful attempt at an escape, he granted himself that, but necessary. He would do anything to distract himself from the million voices that crowded his head, and if this was what it took, then that was that.

_That doesn’t answer your first question,_ he thought ruefully, balling his gloved hands into fists to try and stay warm. _What is this for?_

_Not just the escape from your head._

All _of this._

Bruce frowned, feeling the rough material of the scarf scratch against his cold face.

_What are you trying to do?_

Somehow, the one question that was the most vague out of them all seemed to hit home with a precision more accurately than all the others.

Because Bruce knew his own thoughts, and he knew what he meant.

It just wasn’t something he wanted to think about.

_You’ve spent three years here. Across the world from Gotham. From the city…from the people you love. The people you care about. You used to believe you could protect them, but look at you now. You’ve run away, you’ve locked them out, and why?_

_Why have you done this?_

_What are you trying to gain?_

He didn’t know.

Bruce’s hand closed around a protruding rock, dusted with snow, to keep his balance as the trail grew more narrow.

He didn’t know.

And yet, something in him _did._

Something, hidden away with utmost caution, disguised beneath years of repression and purposeful ignorance of what was right in front of him, knew the answer.

But Bruce couldn’t find it. Not now. Not after having hidden it away for so long.

_What is it?_

_What is this for?_

His breathing was growing more harsh, and his lips felt raw from the condensation-based ice that scraped against them. Bruce took a careful step over a particularly slippery patch of snow on the ground. His eyes had grown darker, and there was something restless in them now.

As if he was searching for something he couldn't find here, and he knew it.

_What are you trying to be?_

_What would you have been, if you had stayed?_

Bruce huffed out a silent, bitter laugh.

_You would have lost your mind._

But then again, hadn't he already lost it, at least a little bit?

Could anything he'd been doing for the past three years really be considered sane?

_Who are you?_

“I don’t know." he whispered, without even realizing he’d spoken aloud. Snow had begun to gather on his eyelashes, and he didn’t bother to blink it away. 

_I don’t know._

_Who do you want to be?_

Oh, but that was a different question entirely.

He didn’t want to be Bruce Wayne. He didn’t want to be Gotham’s favorite son. He knew, all too well, what that title brought along with it. He would forever be caught up in a web of deceit, entangled in bribery and the envy of others and the wrath of everyone who thought he had wronged them.

He knew it painfully, achingly well.

_If you weren’t Bruce Wayne, maybe none of this would have ever…_

He gritted his teeth. God, why couldn’t he let the past lie? Why did it always come back, creeping at the corners of his thoughts like some sort of persistent virus, darkening his life just when he thought he’d finally escaped for good? Why did he let it come back in the first place?

_Because the past is what made you into who you are._

But he didn’t know who that was.

Who he was supposed to be.

He just wanted to _escape._

Being Bruce Wayne wasn’t enough. It didn’t fill that hollowness inside him, didn’t push away the memories that clawed their way back into his consciousness without warning. If anything, it only made them stronger. He merely went through the motions of living now, acting out a life that had been set for him, and feeling so terribly, terribly empty.

There was only one time when he had ever truly felt complete. Felt like he had a _purpose._

For a moment, he almost felt like he was back _there_ again, standing on the catwalk in Ace Chemicals, his heart pounding in his chest with an energy he’d never felt before. His body tensing with the anticipation of the inevitable fight he knew would commence in just moments. Wanting it, _needing_ it, craving it because it was _something he could defeat._ Something he could face, and defy, and _conquer._

It was the only time Bruce had ever felt like his life meant something. There was no point in denying it to himself. 

_It’s who you want to be._

If only he knew how.

Bruce realized with a start how cold it had gotten. The tips of his fingers had gone numb and he was shivering as the snow began to fly faster and thicker. He backed up against the steep mountainside, feeling the rocks press against his back, and without warning, they began to shift.

He scrambled away, turning around sharply to ensure he wasn’t going to set a mini avalanche in motion, and noticed something dark from between the cracks in the wall of rocks. Narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest to try and preserve some of his body heat, Bruce cautiously stepped closer, surveying the result of his disruption with a wary eye.

He disentangled one hand to press it against one of the rocks, and it promptly fell inward, clattering to the ground of whatever lay past them.

Bruce’s curiosity was piqued.

Slowly, carefully, he began pulling away some of the rocks, ensuring after each removal that he wasn’t about to trigger a collapse of part of the mountainside on him. He didn’t relish the prospect of being buried alive in subzero weather, and every movement was calculated with painful precision.

He didn’t like to admit it, but he knew this was a tactic to make him forget the subject that had been on his mind moments before.

It often ended up like this, these days.

Before he knew it, Bruce had cleared away a hole in the rock face large enough to fit through, and he could see clearly now that there was a spacious cave hidden behind it. Partly out of curiosity, partly out of a desire to escape the frozen winds swirling around him, he crawled inside, standing up carefully to ensure he wouldn’t hit his head on any low overhangs.

There was nothing but shadows in the cave, as far as he could see.

Bruce sat down on the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest, and waited for circulation to return to his hands. It wasn’t much warmer in here, but at least he was out of the wind.

His mind unconsciously traveled back to Gotham. Back to the manor, which he knew had been successfully rebuilt by now. Back to the cave beneath his own home, which Alfred and Lucius had been fitting out with the restored computer monitors Thomas Wayne used to keep down there, and who knew what else.

Bruce still wasn’t sure why he’d requested _that._

And he wasn’t sure why he’d asked Alfred to install the criminal records from the GCPD into the computer memory.

Or why he’d kept it a secret from Jim and the others.

The part of him that held the answers was still obstinately buried.

If it came down to it, Bruce knew what he wanted. He wanted to be prepared to help Gordon and the GCPD and all the others if his help was ever called upon. He wanted to be there for them, wanted to be a resource, wanted to _do something._ It was ridiculous, he knew, and he was grateful to Alfred and Lucius for unquestioningly keeping the secret for him, even if they didn’t know why. It was ridiculous because he was just Bruce Wayne, he was just the billionaire son of Gotham, he wasn’t supposed to involve himself in all that. And that was the trouble. After all he’d organized from afar, all he’d requested of Alfred and Lucius, all he’d had built up for some hidden reason…it didn’t feel _right._ Didn’t feel complete, as if he was on the edge of an idea but it was just out of his reach. Slipping through his fingers every time he tried to grab it.

_I just want to know who I am._

But no, that was only part of it. Because when it came down to it, he _did_ know. He knew who he was now, who he had always been. Bruce Wayne, no more and no less. Gotham’s resident billionaire, figurehead of the city. Following in the footsteps of his parents, murdered before their time.

_Murdered…_

Bruce shivered.

He remembered a time that felt so long ago, back when he had been so certain of his future. Who he would become. Who he _should_ be. When he had let his parents’ death drive him to a new level of who he was, let himself admit that he wanted to become something impossible, something _insane._

He flinched at the word as it crossed his mind, and he shut his eyes tightly to block out the _other_ thoughts, the memories that came along with it. But he couldn’t deny the truth in his own assertion of the madness in him.

He’d wanted to protect Gotham.

What could be more insane than that?

_You’re just one man. One among thousands. Criminals flock to the city like it’s a feeding ground, and there is no way you could ever hold your own against them._

_You’re only human._

It was a crushing, painfully obvious, _glaring_ realization.

_You can’t be anything more than that._

None of this was even worth thinking about. It was just a stupid, childish fantasy that he’d dreamed up once, trying to fill the void inside him, trying to make himself into something more, something that could change things.

_Something to make you feel complete._

Bruce swallowed hard, lacing his gloved fingers together and staring into the darkness of the cave he was sitting in. Outside, the wind shrieked.

_It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?_

For the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to imagine what that would be like. How it would be to feel complete again.

_To fight the darkness…_

_Oh, who are you kidding?_

He couldn’t fight the darkness…he never had been able to. The darkness couldn’t be destroyed…it would only come back. It couldn’t be pinned down, or manipulated, or contained.

Of _course_ he couldn’t fight it.

Bruce sighed.

Maybe he wasn’t supposed to.

For a moment, his breath hitched in his chest. Something in those words, something hidden and burning and intense, broke through his jumbled thoughts. Like a match that had been struck in the blackness all around him. Illuminating something he hadn’t seen before. He stared harder into the shadows.

Maybe he didn’t _need_ to fight it.

Bruce twisted his hands together tightly. The thought had never occurred to him before. The darkness was everywhere, it wouldn’t be kept in one place, it would never be eradicated. Because it would always come back in one way or another, and as much as he tried to fight it, it wouldn’t make a difference.

_If you…_

Something clicked in his brain.

For a long moment, time seemed to stand still. Bruce wondered if he was still breathing…the world seemed suspended, as if he was frozen in a tableau and couldn’t escape. But his thoughts were churning, rearranging themselves, slowly building a picture like puzzle pieces sliding into place after years and years of confusion and frustration and uncertainty.

The wind had died down outside.

_If you become…_

Bruce stood up slowly, his muscles aching from the cold. The shadows of the cave had closed around him, but it didn’t feel stifling anymore. It didn’t feel like it was holding him back.

It felt like it was a part of him.

That he was a part of _it._

_Become the darkness._

Because that was _power._ And he could use that power for _good._ He could turn it all in on itself…it would be a shield, a mask…

_You’re just a human, but what if…_

_What if they could all believe you were something more?_

_Something that can’t be destroyed._

Anyone could kill a human. The criminals in Gotham did it every day.

_You have to become something greater than that._

He had to create something that was bigger than him. So if he _was_ killed, if he was defeated, they still wouldn’t win. They would never win.

_You have to become an idea._

He was in the dark alley again, kneeling in still-warm blood that wasn’t his, his small, trembling fingers clutching at the pearls that rolled off into the shadows and disappeared. Staring down at the two motionless faces that stared back with dead eyes. Feeling the darkness build within him for the first time.

The first time…

_And not the last._

It had always been a part of him.

_That_ was what made him Bruce Wayne. That was what had shaped him, driven him, built him up and torn him down over the years. His parents’ death was a part of him, it was _everything_ he was, and it was where this had all began.

Because it had brought out that darkness for the first time. The darkness, and a thirst for something he’d never thought he could actually attain. 

He _still_ couldn’t attain it. Not as a human. Not as something that could be destroyed.

But if that all changed…

_If you could have anything in the world…_

_If you could_ be _anything in the world…_

Bruce breathed in deeply, his heart pounding in his chest. The thought had sparked a flame that now flared up inside him, bright and burning with an intensity he’d been longing to feel ever since he’d stood in that chemical plant three years ago and thrown himself into a fight against evil that had changed him forever.

_Gotham…_

Gotham had been torn apart, time and time again, with crime. Death. _Fear._ The city attracted violence, and criminals seemed to crawl out of the cracks unendingly. The GCPD would fight back, but there was only so much they could do. They were enslaved by their own laws, their own rules. Their own _humanity._

If they were going to be defeated, they would have to be faced with something that defied all that. Something on their own level.

Bruce didn’t know it, but there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Burning bright in the darkness, determined and resolute and unbreakable.

_Bruce Wayne can’t protect Gotham. The public knows who he is. They know who he’s supposed to be. They’ve caged him in his own mortality…you can’t stay yourself and be complete. Not at the same time._

He clenched his his hands into fists.

_So become something more._

_A disguise. A mask. An identity that is you, just as much as you are Bruce Wayne._

_Don’t let them know who’s hiding behind it._

The wind outside had stopped. It was quiet in the cave. The shadows wrapped around him even tighter than before. He didn’t want to let them go.

_The darkness has always been inside you. And you’ve never known how to control it. You’ve always thought it would be your downfall, that if you gave into it, you would become like them, like the criminals, like everything evil in Gotham. But you don’t have to be. It doesn’t have to be evil._

_It’s just darkness, after all._

_It can be whatever you want it to be._

_You can be whatever you want to be._

_Whatever Gotham needs._

Above him, there was a faint flutter of sound in the silence. Bruce looked up. His heartbeat had slowed, steadied, and something very close to certainty was pushing its way into his thoughts. 

_This has always been the way._

The sound came again, a distant rustling noise accompanied by an almost inaudible squeaking. For a moment, Bruce thought it came from just one direction, but he couldn’t pinpoint where. He soon realized it was coming from all around him, and he froze, standing perfectly still.

Something brushed against his arm, and Bruce flinched. The sound came closer, then drew back. It sounded like wings.

He narrowed his eyes, staring into the inky blackness of the cave. He couldn’t see anything, didn’t know where to look. Whatever the sound was, he couldn’t stop it.

_Can’t…_

_Can’t destroy it._

It brushed against him again, this time across the side of his face. Bruce could distinctly feel the touch of a leathery wing, and the tension flooded out of his body as realization swept over him.

_Bats._

They were all around him now, but he wasn’t afraid. 

Bruce’s heart began beating faster again. He heard it in his ears, like the pounding of a drum.

_You were afraid when you didn’t know what they were. You were willing to stop, willing to submit, willing to surrender to whatever it was because you thought you couldn’t defeat it yourself. You didn’t know it could be defeated._

_You didn’t know…_

He closed his eyes, letting the darkness envelop him completely. It was welcoming now, drawing him in, letting him become a part of it. He’d never known how freeing it felt until now. Never dreamed that he _could_ allow himself to become something…like this.

_Just think of the things you could do._

_What you could do for Gotham._

_What you could do for the people._

Everyone in the city who had been broken by crime, who had been destroyed and beaten back and whose lives had been ripped apart…

_They’ll finally have the justice they deserve._

Bruce opened his eyes, staring into the darkness. The fluttering of wings around him filled his ears, but his thoughts were louder. Resolute. _Determined._

_What they deserve._

And they would never see it coming.

\+ + + + + + + + +

Arkham Asylum loomed dark and forlorn on the horizon as nighttime swept across Gotham City, not even the faint lights from inside the building cutting through the shadows. 

The inmates were mostly quiet, catching a few hours of sleep or not caring enough to try and bother anyone else. In the long, white-walled halls, the fluorescent lights flickered and blinked as quiet footsteps of wardens and orderlies echoed as they meandered back and forth without any real direction or intent.

Ecco paused outside the cell door, her dark eyes darting back and forth as she waited until she was alone in the hall. So far, she hadn’t been the recipient of any suspicion among her coworkers, but if they saw her paying too much attention to any one particular inmate, they my start asking questions and even move her to another ward. And that _couldn’t_ happen, she could never risk a possibility like that. 

So she waited until she was alone.

From the pocket of her uniform, she pulled out the key ring she had been given and sorted through it until she found the right one. The metallic jingling of the keys sounded too loud in the quiet, and her back stiffened with worry as she listened for the sound of anyone approaching. The moments stretched by into nearly a full minute, then she allowed herself to breathe again and resumed searching for the right key.

Finding it, she unlocked the door and slipped inside, shutting it behind her. She _was_ authorized to be here…that wasn’t the problem, she was just so worried that someone’s suspicions would be raised by the extra attention she paid to the inmate of this particular cell. Ecco shook her head sternly at herself, pocketing the keys. 

_Stop it. You’re being paranoid._

_No one cares what you do around here._

She drew in a deep breath, crossing to the corner of the cell with light steps and sitting down on the very edge of the narrow bed. 

“Hey.” 

The single word died in her throat the moment it was spoken aloud, and she stared at the ground, listening to the maddeningly endless beeping of the heart rate monitor and the quiet hiss of the oxygen tank. Her eyes closed as she reached out a cautious hand, gently entangling her fingers in the scarred ones that she knew so well.

“I miss you.” she whispered, feeling her heart constrict and twist painfully in her chest. She hated this, hated how every day was a near-identical repeat of the last, how there was nothing she could do but keep coming back, how she knew things would never change, and yet she couldn’t leave.

She couldn’t move on.

_You never will._

Why would she?

_How_ would she?

“I’d get you out of this place if I could.” She opened her eyes, lifting her gaze as it traveled to his motionless face, so still that he really did look dead. Despite the scars, and the lower half of his face being shrouded with the oxygen mask, it was unmistakably _him_ , and that made it so much worse because it only brought back memories of a time that Ecco knew they would never have again. “I’d get you out, and I’d never leave you, and even if you stayed like this forever, I would make sure you weren’t alone.” They were empty, useless promises, and they only served to remind her of how they really were trapped, they had no other option but to stay like this for the rest of their lives.

_If you can call this living._

She cast a baleful look at the placard tacked to the wall of the cell, the typed letters like a slap in the face as she read over them, just as she did every time she was here.

_“Services funded by Bruce Wayne.”_

Ecco’s expression hardened. She supposed she should be grateful to Wayne…there was no doubt that the asylum would have been all too willing to let Jeremiah die here if the billionaire hadn’t stepped in. But her deep-rooted jealousy of Bruce went too far for her to be truly grateful…even now, he had forced his way into their lives, no matter how good his intentions.

And Ecco couldn’t help but wonder his motivation behind it all.

The two were _enemies._

And Bruce, for some incomprehensible reason, just wouldn’t walk away.

_You have no choice but to appreciate him. He’s the one who’s kept_ him, she glanced over at Jeremiah again, her hand still wrapped around his, _alive all this time._

Ecco almost wished she could be irritated enough to break through the numbing apathy that had fallen over her like a haze these past few years.

Maybe then she could at least feel something new.

_Big chance of that._ she thought sarcastically, staring into the darkness of the cell. There were no windows, and no clock, but she knew it was already late at night. Guards would be making their rounds soon enough, and if she didn’t want to get caught, she knew she had to leave.

Reluctantly, she got to her feet, smoothing out the front of her uniform. It was time to go back to the apartment, catch a few hours of dreamless sleep, and then return to the asylum in the morning. Going through the empty motions of living, pretending to be more than a puppet on a string, dragged on because she didn’t have the willpower to break out of this dull cycle of nothingness.

The willpower to give him up.

_Because there’s no one else who will care about him._

And it was her job. It was always her job. And giving up, at this point, had become unthinkable. It was ingrained in her, and without Jeremiah, what was the point of anything?

Ecco sighed, pushing those thoughts away. Some days it got to be too much, and she didn’t want that to happen tonight. Any semblance of control over her own life had slipped away long ago, and she had to at least try and keep her own emotions in check. It was all she could do now.

“I’ll come see you again.” It was routine for her to say those words, just as it was routine for her to come to that darkened cell every day after the majority of work hours. Routine was the only thing they had left, some kind of order in the mess that was their lives _(no, it’s not really living, it hasn’t ever been, you’re just broken pieces of humanity pretending to still be alive)._

“You have to come back.” she whispered, trailing one hand carefully down the side of his face. _Please. Please, come back._ Just as pointless, just as useless as everything else, but she couldn’t help it. Sometimes she knew she had to indulge in a moment of fantasy if she wanted to retain the fragments of her own mind.

_If you do, I’ll be waiting._ Ecco backed away, her eyes never leaving his face, and opened the cell door. It creaked in the silence, and she hoped there was no one around to see her. _I’ll be waiting, I’ll always be waiting. No matter how long it takes, no matter what._

_I’ll be here._

There was nothing else she could do.

The door clicked shut as it closed behind her, the sound of the lock falling in place the only noise in the heavy silence of the asylum corridor.

\+ + + + + + + + + 

_“…miss you.”_

Through the endless void of darkness and silence that stretched into eternity, a voice broke through.

It wavered like a static-corrupted announcer on a radio, the words distant and faint. Barely audible, and gone in the next instant. 

_“…you…have to come back…”_

They were drifting away now, just like the brief flash of consciousness that had allowed them to be heard. Drifting far, far away, and nothing could be done to bring them back.

Nothing could be done to push away the emptiness.

It was impossible to focus on the voice now. And trying to _understand_ what the far-away words meant was even more pointless. 

Awareness was slipping away again, just as quickly as it had broken through the oblivion. The voice was still speaking, but the words were nearly all garbled and indistinguishable.

The darkness was returning, and there was no chance at holding it back.

_Who…_

_Who was…_

Then the silence swallowed everything up again and the voice was gone.

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

“Lucius.” Bruce pulled off his snow-dusted coat as he stepped into the apartment, shutting the door behind him and sitting down as he propped the phone up to his ear with one shoulder. “Thanks for picking up. I know it’s late there.”

“Only two a.m.” the familiar voice of Lucius Fox replied drily. Bruce could hear the scratching of pencil against paper and knew his old friend was likely busy at work, and had been all night. He felt a sudden twinge of homesickness, the first he’d felt in awhile. 

_But it’s not time to go home. Not yet. You’re not ready._

He had to be patient with this.

“What can I do for you, Bruce?” Lucius spoke up after the prolonged silence between them. Bruce blinked, jerked out of his reverie, and straightened up from where he was sitting, his eyes drifting to the apartment’s fireplace, where ash-stained logs were burning brightly. The light from the flames was glaring, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. A flash of memory swam through his mind, the sight of the Gotham clock tower up in smoke as he’d watched helplessly from the manor, too late to do anything but look on in horror.

_Focus. He asked you a question._

Bruce blinked, clearing his throat. He had a plan now, and he had to stick to it. It was only half-formed as of the moment, pieces still falling into place as inspiration continued to strike now and again.

“Remember that bulletproof jacket you made for me once?” His hand twined anxiously around the phone cord, and uncertainty flashed through his mind for a split second, wondering if this really was the right decision.

If he was really going to do this.

There was an inquiring pause for a moment. “Yes. In fact, I think it’s somewhere at the manor. Alfred kept it for you. Why do you ask?”

Bruce stared into the flickering flames of the fireplace, his gaze distant. The light reflected in his dark eyes, but there was something deeper burning there, something that had been reawakened for the first time since that night at Ace Chemicals, three years ago.

_You have to become everything you believe in._

_You have to, because no one else will._

_And because it’s the only way for you to feel complete again._

He finally looked away, his gaze traveling to the various emblems and sketches he'd scribbled onto a sheet of stationery from his desk, a corner of his mouth turning up partly at the ridiculousness of it all, partly at the excitement that coursed through his veins and awoke the spark inside him that he'd thought had been lost. 

His words were carefully chosen as he spoke, but there was no doubt of the determination behind them.

“I was wondering if I could persuade you to add a few upgrades to the design."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (na na na na na na na na batmannnn)
> 
> There'll be a few more chapters like this, of the years before Bruce comes back to Gotham, but they're really hard to write since there's very little action, so I'll probably get around to him returning pretty quickly haha
> 
> Leave a comment and let me know what you think <3 thoughts, criticisms, everything else is welcome, like always :)


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

_One Year Later_

“You know I can’t stay.” Ecco stared at Ivy in the darkness of the latter’s apartment, barely allowing herself to venture further than the threshold. 

“You’re so paranoid. You think everyone’s watching you all the time.” Ivy clicked on the lamp that stood in the corner of the room, crossing her arms as she looked Ecco up and down. “I don’t see why. You’ve obviously tried hard to make yourself incredibly average.”

Ecco said nothing to that, knowing it was a very thinly veiled jab of derision from the other, who seemed intent on convincing her out of this role she’d assumed for the past half a decade.

The thought was startling.

_Has it really been that long?_

She supposed that thought shouldn’t come as a shock. Sometimes it even felt longer.

But sometimes it felt like just yesterday that everything had happened.

“Anyway,” Ivy interrupted the silence that had fallen between them, “what’s new?” She sat down on the arm of the sofa, motioning for Ecco to come inside the apartment. “I mean, I know the answer to that is nothing. I’m just asking to make conversation.”

“I really shouldn’t stay here.” Ecco pursed her lips, fiddling with the cloth belt of the coat she wore over her uniform. “You never know—”

“Would you _stop_ it?” Ivy rolled her eyes, exasperated. “No one is following you, no one is spying on you, and no one cares what you do. Trust me.”

“I can’t jeopardize my job…”

“Shut up about your job.” Ivy held up one hand. “I don’t care, and I don’t want to hear it. Like I said, no one cares about you there, and you make sure of it. They all just think you’re some wannabe nurse with a weird name.”

“In my defense, you’re the one who made me think up that name.” Her hand brushed against the name tag with “Harleen Quinzel” written on it. Ivy shook her head regretfully.

“I said _one_ thing, you really can’t pin the blame on me.”

Ecco shrugged ironically, shutting the door behind her after one final cautionary glance over her shoulder. “It’s worked out so far.”

“Exactly my point.” Ivy smiled knowingly. 

Neither of them said anything for another moment, and Ecco stared thoughtfully out the apartment window, watching the last light of the sun disappear over the city skyline until shadows had swept over everything.

_Another day come and gone._

_Just like all the rest of them._

Ivy’s words jerked her out of her thoughts.

“How’s your dead boyfriend?”

Ecco winced, but didn’t bother to correct her. “I thought you wanted me to shut up about my job.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t seem capable of talking about really anything else outside of that.” Ivy scoffed. “So I might as well ask you, if it lets us talk about something.”

“He’s…” Her gaze dropped to the ground and the words trailed off. There really wasn’t anything she could say. Because she didn’t know anything, she had no idea if he was even still _there,_ or if she really would spend the rest of her life coming back to care for nothing more than a corpse. 

At that point, they might as well both be dead.

Ivy was looking at her with one raised eyebrow, and Ecco realized she hadn’t actually answered the question. She cleared her throat, leaning on one shoulder against the wall.

“He’s okay.” It felt like a lie, even if she didn’t know if it was or not. _Maybe that’s just you self-projecting._ After spending so much time pretending to be a nurse in a criminal insane asylum, she couldn’t help a little psychoanalysis on herself every now and again. Even if it didn’t yield the greatest of realizations. “Nothing unusual. I guess that’s a good thing.”

That _definitely_ felt like a lie.

“So, you’re still wasting your life.” Ivy’s voice wasn’t as sarcastic as usual, but it still held a very clear note of disapproval. Ecco wondered why she even cared about this at all. What did her life matter to Ivy? It wasn’t as if she was anyone important…without Jeremiah, she didn’t really exist. To anyone else in the world, or to herself.

She was nothing without him.

“What else can I do?” She hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud, but it was too late, and Ivy took it upon herself to answer that.

“You can try to move on. It’s been five years, and you’ve done nothing but keep pretending things are going to change. They aren’t, not unless you’re the one to walk away.”

The very prospect made her shudder. “No. I can’t do that. I can’t.”

“Why? You’ve tethered yourself to a dead man who will never come back. And you _know_ that. You’re not even trying to trick yourself anymore, you just won’t let yourself move on.”

“Why does it matter to you?” Ecco asked sharply, defensiveness crawling into her words. “You have no reason to care about what I want to do.”

Ivy laughed shortly. “I don’t care. You can spend the rest of your life moping around the asylum and you won’t see me crying about it. I’m just trying to tell you that you’re wasting every chance you have to move on because you won’t just give up this crazy thing you’ve got going and accept the truth.”

“I’m the only one who accepts the truth.” she replied stoically, used to this conversation by now so that it wouldn’t affect her deeply enough for a breakdown. Besides, she was very good at concealing her emotions when she needed to. It was just something that came naturally to her. But even that didn’t completely mask the fear that darkened her eyes.

The fear that she was wrong.

But she couldn’t say that aloud. Not to Ivy. Not to anyone.

“And if I give up on him, he’ll have no one.” she continued, her voice painfully steady. Almost too calm. “I can’t abandon him, not after…after everything that’s happened.”

_After everything we could have been._

“Did you ever even really know him?” Ivy’s tone was decidedly skeptical now. “I mean, I know you worked for him, but did you _know_ him? Know him beyond being a mindless servant waiting for his orders?”

Ecco’s face flushed angrily at that, and she balled her hands into fists as Ivy stared back cooly. “I knew him better than _anyone.”_ Her voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the danger in it. “And I still do. That’s why I can’t leave.”

“Hmm.” Ivy narrowed her eyes scrutinizingly for a moment, and the silence between them was tense enough to snap at any moment. Then she shrugged again. “Sounds like a pretty bad excuse to me, but okay.”

“Well, it’s fortunate that it’s not your life, then.” Ecco said stonily, crossing her arms. “At least I know who I’m supposed to be.”

“Yeah, a mindless follower of some guy who doesn’t even know and will never know that you care about him. I’m sure that’s very fulfilling for you.” The irony in her voice was stifling.

Ecco stared back at her, unyielding despite the threat of tears that stung at the backs of her eyes. Her stoicism could only go so far, and Ivy was testing that over and over again, seemingly intent on breaking her down. She knew the the other had good intentions, no matter how abrasive they sounded…after all, even Ecco could see her own apparent desperation in this charade she’d been keeping up for nearly five years. But that didn’t seem to matter, the fact that it was all a waste didn’t seem to matter…because if she left, where would she go? What would she do?

_Who would you be?_

She knew the answer to that, had known it ever since this had all started.

And it was why she couldn’t leave.

_Because you know you’ll always be nothing without him._

\+ + + + + + + + + +

Selina stood in the middle of the Wayne Manor study, her footsteps muffled by the rug. Slowly burning flames in the fireplace sent flickering shadows skittering across the room, and her eyes darted back and forth, watching them.

She held a sizable ruby in one gloved hand, weighing it contemplatively, but it was clear her focus was elsewhere. Taking in her surroundings, caught up in memories of so long ago.

_But it really wasn’t, was it?_

_Only a few years._

Those few years felt like an eternity in the past.

Selina pressed her lips together tightly, eyes darkening. The metallic, needle-sharp razors shaped like claws on the ends of her gloves scraped against the ruby. She shivered at the grating sound and let out a long breath.

Her eyes turned back toward the flames, reflecting the fiery light in their irises. She was so lost in thought that that she didn’t hear the door click open, or the steps that broke the silence.

“Pleasure to see you, Miss Kyle.”

She stiffened, ready to spin around and attack the owner of the voice, but then recognition set in a half-second later and she gave a small smile, still staring into the fireplace. “Hello, Alfred.”

“I was going to ask you what you might be doing here at this unholy hour of the night, but it seems I have my answer.” Selina glanced over her shoulder at the butler’s words, and he nodded at the gemstone she was holding. As if she was a child again, she hid it behind her back.

“Hmph. As if you’d notice if anything was missing.”

“You have a point there, Miss Kyle.” He smiled wryly. “Still, I sense there’s something more than simply stealing from Master Bruce’s excess of wealth. You haven’t tried to break into the manor in years, unless you’ve been sneaking in under my nose.”

“I haven’t. But it also wasn’t finished construction.” Selina glanced around. “Looks nice, by the way.”

“Well, I suppose you have Bruce to thank for that.” He didn’t miss the way her eyes darkened at the mention of the young billionaire’s name. “He reconstructed the blueprints himself. With a little help from Lucius Fox, of course.”

“Huh.” Selina toed the carpet beneath her feet, slipping the ruby into the satchel at her side. “Isn’t he just Mr. Successful.”

“Yes, well.” Alfred cleared his throat, tapping his fingers against the doorframe in the ensuing silence. “Anyway, care to explain your presence? Construction’s been finished for quite some time now, and I haven’t seen you around here until now. Why the sudden urge for late-night thievery?"

Selina chewed her lip, staring at the ground. Her hair fell over her face, concealing her expression, but Alfred caught a glimpse of heartache in her eyes. “Got tired of robbing museums, I guess.” She forced a laugh, and it sounded bitter and sharp. “Besides, all the cops are out looking for me. You probably saw the papers.”

“Indeed I did.” Alfred nodded to the newest copy of _The Gotham Gazette_ sitting on a side table, the large blocky letters of the headline reading, “Cat Burglar Makes Another Clean Getaway, Police Baffled.” He shook his head. “They’ve taken to calling you Catwoman, eh?”

Selina scoffed. “It’s a stupid name.” Despite her words, she didn’t seem too put off by it. “They think they’ve got to give every criminal in this city a new name. As if they’re not all insane enough to begin with.”

“Can’t argue with you there, miss.” 

“Anyway,” Selina clicked the satchel shut, patting it reassuringly for the ruby nestled inside, “I should get out of here."

“Well, there’s an admission price to leave this room, Miss Kyle.” Alfred’s words stopped her before she could escape via the window. She looked back and saw him raise his eyebrows expectantly. 

“Oh, come on. All that hard work I did to get this,” she tapped the ruby hidden in the satchel, “and you’re gonna take it back? That’s low, Alfred.”

The butler shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t condone you stealing from Master Bruce’s belongings, miss.”

Sudden fire flashed in Selina’s eyes. “Oh, is that right?” A shudder of anger rushed through her, and her shoulders stiffened. “I can’t steal from him? It’s not like he’s ever going to notice, is he? We both know he’s _very_ good at ignoring things.”

Alfred sighed. “Miss Kyle…”

“If he can just decide to haul his ass out of Gotham and not even _bother_ to say goodbye, and then stay away for _years_ and still never say a single thing, then I don’t think I should feel bad about one measly little jewel.” she spat, venom in her stare. Pain, too, lingering beneath the surface. Alfred’s expression became more sympathetic.

“Well, I’m certainly not condoning his actions, Selina. I’m merely requesting you to take your illegal activity elsewhere.”

She scowled at him. “No. He didn’t make an exception for me, and I’m sure as hell not going to make an exception for him.”

The butler frowned. “What do you mean, make an exception for you?”

“He didn’t _tell_ me he was leaving!” Her voice pitched higher, and for an awful moment Selina thought she might cry. Forcing back the threat of tears, she lifted her chin. “I know he didn’t tell anyone else, either, and I know he thought he was doing the right thing, but…but he should have known he could tell _me._ He should have known that.”

“Selina—”

“And it’s been _five years!_ Five years, Alfred.” Her eyes were glassy with tears now. “And he hasn’t once tried to speak with me. No letters, no calls, _nothing._ It’s just like…like I don’t exist to him. Like I never existed to him.”

“Well now, you know that’s not true.”

“Do I?” She lifted teary eyes to the man’s face. “How can I know that, when he’s betrayed everything we had? He was the only person I knew I could love, Alfred. Because he…he stuck around. Even after everything I did…” She fiercely wiped at her face with her sleeve. “After everything, he never left me. He never gave up on me. I broke his rules, and I told him I didn’t need him, and somehow, he stuck around.” A choked, tortured laugh caught in her throat. “But the one time I thought we would be okay…the one time, was when he left.” She drew a shaky breath. “He stole everything from me, Alfred. I don’t think it’s unfair for me to steal a worthless little gemstone from him.”

They were both silent. Selina felt her lips tremble and pressed them tightly together, trying to hide the emotions that rose up beneath the surface. She hadn’t meant to voice such an outburst, but it had been too much to contain. After five years, she had to say _something._

Alfred didn’t say anything, but he turned to leave, shutting the door behind him. Selina knew he wasn’t going to stop her from leaving now, ruby or no ruby. A flash of bitterness flared up in her.

There wasn’t any _fun_ in any of this, without someone to chase after her.

Without _Bruce._

It just felt empty and pointless.

With numb fingers, she pried the ruby out of the satchel and set it down on the table, on top of the folded newspaper. The blood-red color of the jewel reflected the light from the fire. Selina sighed.

_Please._

She stared with blank eyes at the suit of armor that had been salvaged from the fire and resumed its place in the corner of the study. The manor had been rebuilt as an exact replica of the old one, as far as she could tell, and the nostalgic memories that washed over her as she stood along in the study.

Remembering when she _hadn’t_ been alone.

_Please come home._

Selina backed away, toward the window. The curtains fluttered in the wind.

_I need you to come home, Bruce._

_This city needs you._

But it was no good wishing for things she didn’t know could ever be true. It wasn’t worth it to get hurt again. To have her heart torn apart and to feel more alone than ever.

Because that was the only thing wishing did.

It was _pointless._

Selina stepped out onto the balcony and disappeared over the edge into the darkness of the nighttime.

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

Ecco stared indignantly at the morphine IV machine, dark eyes flashing. She knew Arkham couldn’t care less about the state of her patient—if Bruce Wayne wasn’t funding them and if they weren’t already teetering on the brink of legal issues, as Arkham always was, they most likely would have let him die long ago. 

She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.

But it still made her so _angry._

Angry, because she felt so helpless. There was nothing she could do to protect him, nothing more than she was already doing. If Arkham officials skimped on painkillers and took Wayne’s funds for their own wallets, she had no way to stand up to them. Not if she wanted to stay here, to keep her position secure.

She couldn’t _risk_ it.

It was infuriating.

“I’m sorry.” she whispered, smoothing tangled dark auburn locks out of his face. In the past year or so, he’d become more recognizable again, even if the chemical scars all over his body still altered his appearance drastically. She thought that maybe if he opened his eyes, she would recognize those, too. 

Ecco missed looking into his eyes.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more.” she continued, voice beginning to waver. “I wish I could…I wish I could take you away from all this…you know that, right?” Her hand stilled on the side of his face. “I wish…”

_I wish you’d come back._

_I need you to come back._

She thought about the city. How complacent it had grown in these past years. How dull. There was nothing to drive it forward, nothing to break the monotony of normalcy that seemed to stifle anything that tried to live there.

He could change all that, if he would just…

_Gotham needs you to come back._

Ecco’s mouth trembled, and she pulled her hand away sharply, shutting her eyes. She turned away, straightening the blouse of her uniform. Tears or grief would betray her in an instant here…she had to purge any sign of emotion to avoid suspicion.

She sniffed, biting down on her lip to distract herself from her thoughts. The pain jerked her back to reality, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

_No slip-ups. For him. You can’t jeopardize this job, because then there’ll be no one here for him._

_And that’s the one and only thing you’re supposed to do._

Ecco opened the cell door, glancing over her shoulder at Jeremiah. Her grip on the handle was so tight that her knuckles turned white, but her expression was carefully neutral. No one would know the pain she was hiding inside.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” she said quietly, before shutting the door behind her and stepping out into the dimly lit halls of Arkham Asylum.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

_“I’ll see you tomorrow.”_

The voice sounded like it was being spoken through water, distorted and faint, but oddly recognizable. 

It was followed by the familiar sound of the door clicking shut, and then there was silence.

_No, wait…_

The thought was startling. It wasn’t from an outside voice, it wasn’t someone else…it was closer, it was a real _thought,_ words that put themselves together of their own accord. It almost felt _wrong._

Well, not wrong. But unfamiliar. Difficult to control.

The darkness was coming back now. The darkness that destroyed everything else and brought that empty silence and stillness and _nothingness_ that was impossible to escape.

The next thought was laced with something a little closer to panic.

_Don’t…don’t leave…_

It was impossible to move. Impossible to speak _(speaking? Was that what the voice was doing? Do you even know what that word means…do you even know anything?)_

There were more thoughts now, and they were overwhelming. Coming up out of nowhere, breaking forcefully through the emptiness, and it was all so confusing, it didn’t make _sense…_

Nothing made sense…

And then everything was gone again.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

_Four Years Later_

“You’ve outdone yourself, Lucius.”

Bruce shook his head in wonder, an awestruck smile playing at the corners of his lips as he stared down at the crate that had been shipped to his apartment the day before. He’d hesitated to open it until now, giving himself a variety of excuses, but knowing it was really just because he didn’t want to be let down by the contents of the crate.

He should have known Lucius Fox wouldn’t disappoint.

Bruce would _certainly_ be sending him a letter of gratitude later.

Slowly, as if in a trance, he bent down, one hand brushing cautiously over the smooth black kevlar chest plates that had been neatly stacked inside. Lucius had sent him numerous versions of the ongoing design, but nothing compared to seeing it here, in person, finally completed.

This didn’t feel real at all.

He picked up the first piece of the suit that lay on the top, letting it unfold. The kevlar had been fitted together in a way that made it resilient and flexible, like sophisticated chain mail, but lighter. Bruce’s grip on the sleeves became tighter, and his eyes were alight with wonder.

_Wow._

The material was so black that Bruce felt he was staring at nothing. Like there was simply a void in his line of vision, no light whatsoever. 

_They’ll never see you coming._

_They’ll never know you’re there until it’s too late._

He held the suit close to his chest, feeling his heart beating twenty times faster than it should. Something in him, a tiny spark of wild ambition that reared its head now and again, whispered that it was finally time for him to go back, it was time for him to put all of this into action, that he was _ready._

But Bruce knew he couldn’t listen to that voice yet.

Because he _wasn’t_ ready.

If he was ready, then he wouldn’t feel like he got punched in the stomach when he thought about Jeremiah Valeska, about how he used to have a friend who had become his most deadly enemy. He wouldn’t feel that rush of helpless regret, the guilt that was so strongly tied to the other, the uncontrollable anger that came along with the memory of betrayal.

He wouldn’t feel horrible for abandoning Selina back in Gotham, even if he had known, or _thought_ he knew, that it was best for both of them. He wouldn’t be second-guessing himself on whether or not he should have stayed with her, if he should have given all this up for her, if he was too late to reconcile things.

If he was ready, he wouldn’t let his feelings run away from him like that.

Bruce clutched the kevlar armor tighter.

He wasn’t ready.

Because he had to stay in control. He had to _learn_ to stay in control.

And then, and _only_ then, could he go home.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

He thought maybe he was trapped in some sort of sensory deprivation chamber. That was the most frustrating thing about all this…he could remember words like _sensory deprivation chamber,_ but he had no idea what his own name was. Why he was here. Where _here_ really was.

It took him a bit longer this time to realize he was conscious again. The thoughts just came so naturally that he didn’t give them a second thought.

_Ha, second thought…_

He considered for a second.

Was that a joke?

He’d forgotten it in the next moment, but his mind was still awake, probing for some sort of grasp on the things in his memory he had lost.

_Well, at least you remember that you forgot something in the first place._

That was progress, right?

_Progress in comparison to what?_

_What happened to you?_

He tried to think back to who he had been before this—he certainly _had_ been someone before, that wasn’t even a question—and how he’d been brought here. But there was nothing, only a silent void where he was sure memories had once existed.

But they had all been burned away.

_Burned…_

For a millisecond, his eyes moved beneath their closed lids. As if he was trying to look for something.

Trying to remember the last thing he had seen.

And with a brief flash of clarity, he _did_ see it.

He saw the figure above him, staring down, silhouetted in the harsh green light…

_You._

Just as soon as he saw it, it was swallowed up in darkness again and drifted out of his memory.

\+ + + + + + + + + 

Selina dug through the wallet she’d just pickpocketed off a businessman on the street, pulling out the cash and tossing the wallet itself over her shoulder. She turned off the street down a dark alleyway, shuffling the money into a stack and folding it before sticking it in her pocket. 

A torn newspaper fluttered across the ground, landing at her feet. Selina dropped to a crouch, picking it up and scanning the headline curiously.

_ “Jewel Collection Display Opening At Gotham Museum Of Natural History Tomorrow”. _

Her lips curled into a smirk. _Seriously, Jimbo?_ It was painfully obvious what the police captain—oh wait, wasn’t he commissioner now? she’d forgotten—was trying to do. Lure her out with pretty trinkets and pounce when the time was right.

And he was using a jewel exhibit as the bait.

Selina grinned.

Of course she _would_ go. It was too good an offer to pass up.

But she certainly wasn’t going to get caught.

_Idiots._ She shook her head, wondering how the GCPD had come to this. So desperate to stop a cat burglar that they’d use an innocent display at a museum as a trap. But, she supposed, that was all they had to fixate on right now. Crime rates had dropped down, especially after Cobblepot and Nygma had been locked up. Sure, there were still some criminals out there, ones that had got rogue and would only pop up once in a while to cause a bit of havoc before disappearing under the radar again. Crane, Tetch, Fries…they were still out there, still operating, but they seemed to have lost their enthusiasm. As if crime was a routine for them, simply a way to remind the GCPD that they were still there, in one way or another.

So really, Selina truly was their biggest threat at the moment.

She shook her head.

_Who’d have thought this city would come to this?_

It wasn’t as if she enjoyed the crime. She didn’t like the destruction, and she didn’t want to see innocent people hurt. Her jaw clenched as a memory of the bridges exploding flashed in her mind’s eye. _Those_ sort of things were wrong, and they broke Gotham down until it was in a nearly unrecognizable state. No, that wasn't the sort of thing she missed at all.

But…she had to admit that it had gotten a little boring around here.

Without the chaos, without the looming sense of destruction that seemed to lap at Gothamites’ heels…well, it just wasn't exciting anymore. It wasn’t as _fun._

Selina huffed out a breath.

_Don’t think crazy things like that._

She looked up quickly when she heard light footsteps approaching behind her, and wheeled around, whipping out the knife she kept strapped to her leg and pressing it against the throat of the intruder.

“Don’t—” she began, then broke off as her eyes widened in surprise.

A little girl was standing there, staring up at her, stock-still. Her blue eyes—there was something weirdly familiar about them, Selina thought—were huge and tension radiated from her expression, but not necessarily afraid. She was dressed in a school uniform, the Gotham Academy colors of purple with a stripe of yellow on the lapel, and was clutching a book bag in both hands.

Selina drew back, mortified. Sheathing the knife, she raised both hands, bending down slightly so she was closer to the girl’s height. “Oh geez, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” The girl still looked slightly shaken, but at least she wasn’t breaking down in tears like Selina had feared she might. She merely stared up at the other, head tilted to one side. Her red-blonde hair was braided back away from her face, but some strands had slipped out and fallen over her eyes. She tossed her head to clear her vision and hoisted her bag back up in her arms again. 

“No, it’s not.” Selina rubbed the back of her neck. “I should’ve checked to see who you were before pulling out a knife like that. I...shit, I probably look like a real douchebag right now.” 

The little girl shrugged. “A lot of people have knives around here. They do at my mom’s club, at least. I’ve got one myself.” From the pocket of her blazer, she produced a small scout knife, holding it out in her palm for Selina to see. The handle was pink, and there was a small yellow sticker with a happy face stuck to it. Selina gave a half-smile.

“Huh. Looks like you can take care of yourself, kid.” 

“Not really.” the girl said with unabashed honesty. “But my dad says he’s gonna teach me martial arts and stuff.” She spun around, landing in a stance that Selina assumed she thought was a martial arts pose. It was kind of cute, to be honest, but Selina wasn't the sentimental type and didn't crack a smile. “He knows that kind of thing, since he’s a cop.”

Something clicked in Selina’s head and her eyes narrowed. “Wait. You said your mom owns a club?”

“Yeah.” The younger of the two was busy putting away her pocket knife. “The Sirens. She takes me there sometimes when I’m staying with her on weekends. I get to do homework in the back room and there’s a cool red chair that looks like a throne or something that she—”

“Your mom is Barbara Kean?” Selina interrupted. The girl nodded. “And that means your dad is Jim Gordon?”

“Uh huh.” The girl patted her pocket containing the knife and picked up her book bag from where she’d set it down on the alley floor. “Who’re _you?”_

“Um.” Selina wasn’t sure if she should mention her real name. After all, this was the commissioner’s kid…Selina had known about her, of course, but they’d never crossed paths until now. Jim was already so intent on catching her and finding all the stolen loot she’d been snatching from around the city that he probably wasn’t above asking his own child for evidence. It was best to keep a low profile.

_Don’t give your real name,_ was the first thought that came to her head. It was an unfortunate one, too, considering that it made Selina automatically revert to the only alias she’d ever used in her life.

“Cat.” she said before she could think, and the little girl raised her eyebrows. Selina fumbled to recover. “Uh…that’s what my friends call me.”

_Dammit._

It wasn’t exactly a score for her and the whole “concealed identity” thing, considering that everyone knew she was a _cat_ burglar.

“Okay.” The girl didn’t seem to be buying it, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she stuck out her free hand. “My name’s Barbara Lee.”

Selina took the proffered hand, wondering how much more she could bungle this interaction up. She just wasn’t used to talking to kids…hell, she had _been_ a kid not that long ago. “What’re you doing in an alley, anyway?”

“Oh.” Barbara Lee looked sheepish. “I got off the bus at the wrong stop. My house is that way,” she pointed to the other end of the alley, “and I thought it’d be faster if I went down here.”

Selina twisted her mouth to the side, straightening up and stepping out of the girl’s path. “Okay, you go on home, then.” The latter nodded gratefully, and began walking. Selina stopped her before she could make it two steps, laying a hand on her arm. “Hey kid, take a little bit of advice from me. Try to avoid alleys and places like this as much as you can.”

Barbara Lee looked back up at her again, the familiar blue eyes—Selina now realized they were nearly identical to Jim’s—questioning. “Why?”

“Oh, you know what it’s like in Gotham.” _Except she doesn’t, this kid has no idea how bad it used to be._ “Alleyways and stuff…” She shook her head. “Not the safest place to hang around. Trust me on this one.”

She didn’t think it necessary to mention that the kid’s own father had nearly been shot point-blank in an alley a mere eight years ago by a pasty-faced psychopath intent on proving a lie to someone else.

That was a long time ago.

“Okay.” The girl seemed unbothered by Selina’s warning. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Selina watched her go, admiring the girl’s presence of mind throughout the entire encounter. She couldn’t be older than eight, but she certainly took after her father in stressful situations.

_You know what it’s like in Gotham._

Her own words echoed back to her, and Selina sighed. She felt awful for how much she missed the chaos of it all. People had been _killed,_ and the city had been broken. She knew she should be grateful for the current peace and lack of crime. She _should_ be, but she just couldn’t force herself into this rhythm of doing _nothing._ It was so, so boring, and no amount of burglary and running from the GCPD would erase that fact.

There was no one to keep up with her.

No one to stop her.

No _Bruce._

But she’d come to that conclusion a long time ago. And thinking about it now would only make things worse.

Trying to distract herself, she felt for the money in her pocket. After a moment of searching, she came up empty handed. 

_What the…_

Staring down at her palms, Selina frowned.

_Huh._

She felt in her other pocket, then in the satchel at her side. There was nothing. 

The wallet was still on the ground, but Selina knew she had taken the money out first. She knew she’d put it in her pocket…right before Barbara Lee had found her in the alley…

Realization slowly began to dawn on her, and an incredulous but admiring smile crossed her face as she shook her head.

_That little shit._

Well, she could now put “stolen goods being pick-pocketed by a cop’s daughter” on the list of things she’d never thought would happen to her.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

It had been a long time since consciousness returned to him. He had no way to measure how long, but it had felt like an eternity. Maybe it had been…at this point, he didn’t know anything for certain.

And oh, that was infuriating.

But he couldn’t let it get to him now. Not when he’d finally been able to grasp his own thoughts after so long in the dark and silence. Now he had to utilize this time, had to work out his thoughts before they left him again.

_What do you remember?_

That was a good place to start. It was a way for him to figure some of this out, and a way for him to try and decipher who _he_ was. That was the most important thing right now, wasn’t it? You couldn’t do anything worth doing until you knew who you were.

_So what do you remember?_

He thought hard, tried to reach the tendrils of memory that dangled out of reach, maddeningly close but also so far away. It was making his head hurt, all these thoughts, but he wasn’t going to give up.

Somehow, he got the feeling he wasn’t the sort of person who gave up easily.

He liked the idea of that.

_You have to remember something._

He wished he knew what was going on. He didn’t know why he couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t do _anything._ He knew those things existed, some part of his mind that still worked told him he’d been able to do all those things once, and he couldn’t figure out why they were all gone. It _was_ frightening, he admitted to himself, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt something like panic as his thoughts got to be too much for him and he just wanted to open his eyes and run out of this place he was trapped in.

But he knew he had to be patient. That was the only way to get anywhere.

Yes, he knew for a fact by now that he was certainly not someone who gave up easily. 

He thought maybe he would have smiled at the thought if he could.

He remembered what smiles were, at least. 

If nothing else, he had that. Even if he couldn’t exactly remember what the point of smiling was. 

What _was_ the point?

_That’s the least of your problems, Jeremiah._

He felt his heart skip a beat, and his slow, controlled breathing sped up for a moment. A feeling like dead weight gripped at his chest, like it was trying to press all the air out of his lungs.

_That’s…_

He heard a faint, distant beeping sound, and part of his mind wondered what it was. Something in his brain that he didn’t have full access to whispered _heart rate monitor,_ but he didn’t know what that meant and so it wasn’t important.

Right now he needed to focus on that name.

_His_ name.

_Your name._

_Jeremiah._

He knew he had to hold onto that. In case it slipped away again. Just like everything else had. It was the key to his identity, the key to finding out the answers to his questions. How he’d gotten here, why he was here, how he could get out. He needed to remember it, because it was _him,_ and without knowing who he was, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do anything else.

If he forgot who he was again, he’d surely go insane.

He felt his breathing catch in his throat. It burned against his vocal cords— _more words you don’t understand, why can’t you remember—_ and he tried to steady it.

_Go insane._

_Insane._

That was word that _did_ sound familiar. And somehow, he knew what it meant.

The faintest involuntary movement of the muscles at the corners of his mouth made Jeremiah’s lips twitch.

He couldn’t describe it, but he _knew_.

\+ + + + + + + +

“What do you mean by discrepancies?” Ecco’s voice rose as her hands balled into fists, and she had to force herself to remain calm. The Arkham warden she was speaking to raised one eyebrow questioningly at her tone.

“You act as if we’re supposed to have preventative measures for this sort of thing, Miss Quinzel. I think you’re overestimating our ability to monitor the reactions of a brain-dead patient who has been in a comatose state for the last, what, seven years? Eight? We’re a mental institution, not a hospital.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Her voice quivered slightly, and Ecco swallowed hard. “What did you mean when you said there were discrepancies in his responses?”

“First of all, _responses_ is a generous term.” The man sat down behind his desk, steeply his fingers. “We simply measure heart and breathing rates at this point. Which have been steady ever since the patient’s transfer to Arkham.”

“But they aren’t anymore.” she pressed. The man nodded.

“I’ve documented a few changes to the pattern here and there. Increased heart rate on occasion, most noticeably. I wouldn’t be so surprised if the incident that brought all this about had happened, oh, a year or two ago. That could even imply the patient is showing signs of recovery, if that were the case. But this was _seven_ years ago, Miss Quinzel. You must know that it’s ridiculous to consider recovery to be an option at this point.”

“Maybe you’re just ignoring the potential—”

“Need I remind you,” came the heartless interruption, “that your patient was dragged out of a vat filled with toxic chemicals. That alone is enough to condemn one to a lifetime of being in an unresponsive state. I wouldn’t expect anything less, nor would any other trained medical professional.”

“You don’t need to remind me.”

“Then you know I’m telling you the truth when I say he won’t be coming back.” The man narrowed his eyes. “I don’t see why you’d want him to, in any case. Don’t you know what Valeska did to this city?”

“I do.”

“Hoping that he wakes up seems to be a bit unfaithful to Gotham then, doesn’t it?”

Ecco tried not to scoff at that. As if she cared about Gotham. “I only want what’s best for my patient.” she said evenly, never breaking eye contact with the man, even as she stood up. “And in any case, my question was simply about the note you’d made concerning discrepancies in responses on this,” she held up the weekly report she received from the asylum, “so if that’s all you have for me, I’ll be leaving.”

“Very well, Miss Quinzel.” He sounded bored, and Ecco didn’t bother giving him an obligatory smile before she left the room.

Once outside, she slumped against the wall, clutching the paper to her chest so tightly that the edges began to crumple. Her breath was shallow and hurried, and a light had sprung to her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A smile trembling on her lips, Ecco gripped the paper like a lifeline, the hope that she hadn’t dared to hold surging back before she could help herself.

_You’re still there._

The rush of emotion was overwhelming, and she felt like a new kind of life had possessed her, a sort of energy that had been gone before, petered out over time as the days had blurred into monotony.

_But now you’re there. I know you’re there._

_You have to be._

Ecco stared up at the ceiling, forcing herself to stay calm.

_You have to be._

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

He was trying to remember.

He knew his name, and he repeated it in his head over and over and over again until he was almost certain he wouldn’t forget it. 

_Jeremiah._

It wasn’t a name he particularly liked. It didn’t feel like it fit him…like it was a name that belonged to someone else but he had to keep it whether or not he wanted to. Still, at least he knew what it was, even if it felt like it wasn’t _truly_ his, and that was what really mattered.

But it was all he could remember.

Little snatches here and there of words and things that other people said would sometimes run through his mind, but he could never pin them down. Never be sure that they were really there, or if it was a trick of his damaged brain.

He’d deduced that his brain _was_ damaged in one way or another, and he didn’t like the thought of that at all. He knew he was smart—how else would he have been able to know all the things he did, even if he couldn’t access them in his head right now—but putting his intelligence into practice was another question entirely. 

To do that, he needed to know what words meant.

Who he was.

_Why_ he was like this.

God, he wanted to remember so badly.

Sometimes he would hear the other voice, the outside voice, always sounding like it was coming from so far away, and he’d be able to make out the things it was saying, even if he wasn’t sure what it meant. The voice…it sounded familiar, he thought, but not familiar like his own thoughts. That meant it had to be someone else, someone he knew, but it wasn’t him.

It meant that he wasn’t alone.

But the voice would leave, too, just like his own thoughts. It didn’t drift in and out…it would leave _definitively,_ and Jeremiah would always think that _this is it, this is the last time the voice will be here, and then you’ll be on your own all over again._ But to his surprise, it would always come back later on, even if it only stayed for a little while. It was routine, and he’d began to be able to tell how long it would be until the voice was there again.

He had come to assume it wasn’t his enemy. _That_ was a word he knew, and it was a word he liked, and he wished he understood why. An enemy was someone you weren’t supposed to like, that much he remembered, but for some reason it didn’t make him feel that way.

When he thought about enemies, he thought about what it was like to have someone who cared enough to hate him.

And he thought about eyes.

Dark eyes that were so, _so_ familiar, and it made his throat close up with how much he wanted to know who they belonged to. They probably despised him, he could tell by the way he saw them in his mind, the way they glowered at him resentfully in the blackness.

He hoped they hated him.

It would prove he had some sort of connection to _someone_ out there.

Someone.

He _had_ to.

He couldn’t be alone forever.

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

Lucius pursed his lips as he leaned back in the black leather swivel chair that sat in front of the computer monitor he and Alfred had reinstalled in the Wayne Manor basement. The underground room had undergone some drastic changes, including a fully functioning elevator, updated monitors, and had been expanded further beyond the house limits, stretching out into the darkness. " _In case,"_ Bruce had explained over the phone when he had first requested it, " _I need to put more stuff down there."_

At first, Lucius had been confused about it all. He had no idea why Bruce would want an underground study when he had a perfectly functional one in the manor itself. But it soon became clearer that this was more than simply a work space…Bruce had some sort of idea in mind that he wanted it for.

It also became clear that at first, Bruce himself really wasn’t sure what it was yet.

That had all changed. Lucius was now receiving weekly requests from the young billionaire, asking for upgrades to the bulletproof suit he’d made years ago, and lately he had moved on to requesting weapons from the man. They were, Lucius noted, all nonlethal, and most of them seemed to be more tactical than attack-oriented. First it had been a retractable grappling hook, similar to one he’d made a prototype for a long while ago. Next, Bruce had asked him if it were possible to design some sort of throwing stars. Lucius had replied by saying that the other would have to be more specific on exactly what type of throwing stars he wanted, and what they were for…Bruce said he would think about it.

The requests kept coming, always laced with a tone of uncertainty on Bruce’s part. Lucius had asked him a few times what he was intending to do with all this gear, but Bruce had evaded the question, and the inventor finally decided that maybe the younger man didn’t fully know yet either. After all, he was a billionaire…he could afford to pay for such inventions even if he didn’t have a plan in mind.

At the moment, he was finishing the process of uploading several new Arkham files to one of the computers, and was watching the last of the information appear on the screen as it was fed into the database. A moment later it was replaced with the blinking letters reading “Upload Complete”, and he pulled out the memory stick plugged into the side of the monitor, standing up and straightening his tie.

Alfred emerged from the darkness of the far side of the cave—Lucius supposed it was technically a basement, but “cave” seemed a more suitable term, given the surroundings. The butler was holding a flashlight in one hand, which he clicked off as he stepped into the light. “Got it all on there, mate?” he asked, setting down the flashlight. Lucius nodded, putting the memory stick in his pocket.

“All safe and sound in the computer.” He patted the top of the monitor with one hand. “There’s all the information you could ever want on here.”

“Well, your job’s decidedly more enjoyable than mine.” Alfred dusted off the front of his suit aggrievedly. “Appears there’s an infestation of blinkin’ bats further in this hole,” he nodded to the darkness from which he had just appeared, “and I’ve got no idea how we’re supposed to get them out. They don’t seem intent on leaving.”

Lucius shrugged, leading the way up the stairs that stood alongside the elevator. “Well, if they’re not doing any harm, you might as well let them stay there. It’s not like they can damage anything down here.”

Alfred picked up the flashlight again and followed the other. “You’ve got a point there, mate. Still, I can’t imagine that Master Bruce would fancy working down here with those flying rodents all clustered round him like the pests they are.”

Lucius thought about the numerous sketches and designs Bruce had sent him over the past few years, patterns for the kevlar armor he was designing, including a mask that had been in the works for the past six months. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” A small smile crossed his face as he pressed the button for the sliding door that led to the back of the fireplace in the manor study. “He might not mind it as much as you think.”

\+ + + + + + + + +

_Just one thing._

_Try to remember just one thing._

He knew it had to be late at night, because the outside voice had gone away, and he’d recently figured out it was only there during the daytime. Consequently, it was late, but his mind was wide awake and his thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone.

_Concentrate._

_Try to remember._

_Anything, everything, whatever you can…_

_You have to remember._

There was something, something so close, something that he felt like he could reach out and grab if he could just piece it together a little bit more…

_Piece it together…_

Puzzles were like that, they had to be put together to see what they were.

_Puzzles? Is that it?_

_No…no, that’s wrong. That isn’t it. It’s not._

God, he was so close to figuring it out.

_You have to remember._

It was _something,_ something he knew well, something that was so familiar that it was a part of him, and yet it wouldn’t show itself, it wouldn’t work. He felt like he was lost, trapped in a neverending hall that led nowhere, disoriented and unable to find his way…

_That’s it._

_That’s what it is._

But he couldn’t remember what they were called.

Jeremiah wished he could grab something by the neck and strangle it until it choked to death. 

This was so _frustrating._

\+ + + + + + + + + +

“Barbara Kean’s building a new skyscraper in the city.” Ecco stared at the wall as one hand lightly caressed her companion’s arm. “I saw it in the paper today.”

She was silent for a moment, wondering if this was worth it. Building up hope all over again for something that probably wouldn’t happen. Knowing it was probably going to come crashing down on her, because hope was a fleeting, fragile thing that she couldn’t control. 

But what else would she do if she couldn’t at least hope?

“You remember her, right? The one who killed that guy Ra’s al Ghul?” It was desperate, she knew, trying to evoke some sort of reaction from the motionless figure beside her. But she couldn’t help it. “I know it was awhile ago, but I…I figured you’d remember her. She’s got a kid now, with Jim Gordon. I’ve seen the little pest running around the city here and there. Anyway, she’s starting construction on the skyscraper this week.”

Ecco knew it was a mindless, shallow, one-sided conversation. Jeremiah had never shown any strong feelings either way toward Barbara Kean…they weren’t on friendly terms, but they also weren’t bitter enemies. Mentioning the woman wasn’t going to cause any sort of jolt of interest to his consciousness—she still firmly believed that, some way or another, he could listen to what she was saying, even if he couldn’t response—but it was the only thing she could think of right now.

Well, it was the only thing she _wanted_ to think of.

Barbara Kean’s skyscraper wasn’t the only building being constructed in the city that was garnering attention from the public. The new Wayne Enterprises tower had been in the works for quite a while, and the papers didn’t hesitate to latch onto that piece of news. Ecco knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if anything was going to catch Jeremiah’s attention, it would be that. 

It might even be the _only_ thing that would catch his attention.

And that was halfway why she didn’t ever bring it up.

She knew her jealousy was unwarranted and paranoid at this point. Bruce Wayne was on the other side of the world and had been for nearly eight years. He showed no sign of coming back, if the news was accurate, and he didn’t seem to even care about Gotham at all. Or its inhabitants, for that matter. And it wasn’t as if Jeremiah was spending much time thinking about his enemy either.

_You’re being pathetic._

She also knew that mentioning Wayne Enterprises or the billionaire behind it wasn’t going to be like some magical spell. It wasn’t going to make any sort of sudden difference…hell, he might not even remember Bruce or everything that had happened that night that had led to all this.

Ecco knew it was in the past, far in the past, and there wasn’t any point in fixating on her paranoia of being cast aside. Things had changed, and she didn’t have to worry.

But she still wasn’t going to say it.

\+ + + + + + + 

Bruce was playing solitaire in his apartment, muscles in his shoulders aching from the training he’d done all that day. It was comforting to have a quiet moment to relax, to forget about the worries that had been plaguing him for the past…well, he didn’t even know how long. 

He flipped over the top card in the deck, eyes distant.

Of course, he knew a simple game wasn’t really going to take his mind off anything.

He wanted to go back to Gotham. Wanted to finally put things in motion after everything he’d been working on. Finally start doing everything he’d dreamed of, because this time he understood so much more, he understood who he needed to be.

But that was part of the problem.

If he wanted to save Gotham, if he wanted to be who the city needed, then he had to change. 

Had to purge any sort of connection with people he used to care about.

_Used to…_

He flipped over the next card.

_You can’t let them get in the way._

_For their sakes, and for yours._

He was still guided by his feelings, by his _emotions._ And that was dangerous; he’d learned that long ago, the hard way. If he let himself get lost like that, he would lose. It wasn’t safe.

_You’re still not ready._

Bruce sighed, tilting his head to the side to crack his neck. He wanted so badly to go home, wanted to _do_ something, wanted to tell Selina he was sorry for abandoning her, wanted to see the manor and supervise the building of Wayne Enterprises…

_You can’t. Not yet._

He stared into the fire contemplatively, the card still clutched in his hand. He hadn’t even bothered to look at it yet.

Gotham was calling to him…it was like craving a drug. He hated how much control it had over him. He wasn’t even sure what was so compelling about the city; after all, it had been a hellhole of depravity and violence and destruction the last time he’d seen it. Sure, it was allegedly better now, if he was to believe Alfred and Lucius’ letters, but it was still Gotham. And it would always be Gotham. 

And yet, he missed it.

_Because it gives you something. It lets you_ be _something. You can fight against the evil there, you can find direction in your life when you thought you had none. That’s why you want to go back…that’s why you love the thrill you get in a fight._

_Gotham lets you be something more._

Bruce sighed, turning back to his game of solitaire. Slowly, he glanced down at the card in his hand, frowning when he was met with a grinning face, coupled with a jester cap that hung down over the visage, bells adorning the ends. The joker. It wasn’t supposed to be in the deck, not for this game.

Bruce pursed his lips and tossed it aside. The card flipped over, landing on the carpet beside him where he was sitting, cross-legged. 

_Give yourself time._

_You have to be ready before you go home._

_They need you to be ready._

\+ + + + + + + + + +

_It’s not puzzles, that’s not it, that’s not the right word._

_Why_ couldn’t he think?

He saw flashes here and there in his mind’s eye. There were sketchbooks, turning open to pages and pages of lines and words and directions in a handwriting he recognized— _yours_ —but he couldn’t recall the name. It seemed important, it had to be important, otherwise he wouldn’t be so, so focused on such a little thing. 

_You’ll think of it. You have to think of it._

They were called…

_What_?

\+ + + + + + + + +

Bruce shuffled the cards back into the deck, stooping down to pick up the one he had tossed aside. 

He stared down at the motionless face of the court jester smiling up at him. The eyes were blank, empty. Heartless.

He didn’t like that smile.

Slowly, his eyes turned toward the blazing light in the fireplace. He took a hesitant step forward it, turning the card over and over in his hand. 

_Without me, you’re just…_

Bruce dropped it into the fire.

His expression didn’t change as he watched the joker card crumple and blacken amid the flames.

_A joke…_

\+ + + + + + + + + + 

_Mazes._

His lips twitched again, the faintest movement, an attempt at a triumphant smile.

They were called mazes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kinda has a spliced-together feel to it, I know, but there were so many viewpoints I wanted to show that I kinda had to...anyway I hope it didn't feel too disjointed or anything
> 
> Also thanks for the folks who left kudos on this story recently...I got a notification for 36 kudos all at once on this particular fic the other day, which is more than I've ever gotten before and it really brightened my day so uhh thanks! I really really appreciate you all who take time to read the stuff I write, and I hope it continues to live up to your expectations :) 
> 
> Comments are always lovely, let me know what you think about it or anything in general! <3
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

_One Month Later_

_You’re an engineer._

The word spoke itself over and over in his head, filling the silence. He hated the silence, hated the darkness, so he clung onto that one word as strongly as he could, determined not to let it go.

_Engineer._

He didn’t remember what it meant yet, and sometimes that would bring him close to panic—he knew what panic was, it was the way he felt his heart beating faster and faster and his throat closing up and he wanted to curl into a ball and shield himself from the things he was afraid of. He was pretty sure he’d felt it before, a long time ago…it was a familiar feeling, and it made the scattered remnants of memories that lingered in his mind come together just a little bit until he could almost remember pieces from his past.

He didn’t like to think about that, because panic meant a loss of control, and that meant weakness, and _that_ meant there was someone stronger waiting to break you.

He wasn’t sure how he knew that with such certainty, but he did. So he controlled it, controlled the fear, because he never, _ever_ wanted someone to be more powerful than him.

But sometimes it was difficult, especially when he felt so hopelessly lost in the darkness and emptiness and started to believe that he’d never return to who he used to be—whoever that was—and that he’d be alone forever.

Alone with his damaged mind fighting to learn itself again.

Sometimes, when the panic got to be too much, he would focus on something else. It was always the same thing, and he wasn’t sure what it was, or why it was one of the few things he seemed to be able to think about.

Those dark, dark eyes that watched him silently, teeming with anger and hatred and something that Jeremiah didn’t understand. It was so vivid, so lifelike, that he had to believe they were real. Or they had been real, once.

Maybe it _was_ a memory.

He wanted to know who the eyes belonged to. 

They seemed so familiar.

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

“I noticed you stole my wallet.” Selina lounged against the alley wall, lazily winding the end of the whip around her finger. It had been raining all day, and the floor of the alley was one continuous puddle, contaminated with gasoline and dirt and grime from the polluted air that turned the water to a murky grey color. Fortunately, Selina didn’t care about that. It was just one of the things to get used to, living in Gotham.

The little girl in the purple rain boots who was staring up at her with a smug smile on her face didn’t seem to mind either. But, Selina thought, when your father was a police commissioner, your mother was a former gang lord, and your stepmother was a medical examiner, you really had no choice but to stomach unpleasant things. Besides, this kid had guts anyway…she’d shown that during their last encounter.

Despite having been pickpocketed, Selina was beginning to like her. 

Barbara Lee tossed her pigtails out of her face. “No, I didn’t.” she replied, and Selina raised one eyebrow. “You didn’t even have the wallet in the first place.”

“Oh, shut up, you know what I mean. You stole my money.”

“It wasn’t yours.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t yours either.”

“I gave it to my dad. He said he’d find whoever it belonged to.”

Selina scoffed. “Good to see that’s Jimbo’s top priority right now.” She scuffed one foot in a mud puddle. “You’d better be glad you were born after all the mess this city used to be in, kid.”

Barbara Lee glanced up at her. “You mean when the bridges were destroyed?”

“How’d you know about that?”

“My dad told me.”

“Your dad needs to leave you out of police business.”

She shrugged. “I want to be a cop like him when I grow up.”

Selina snorted. “Don’t. Too many rules. I’m sure you can find better ways to make this city a better place or whatever crap they talk about over at the GCPD.”

“But I want a uniform like he has.” the younger girl explained. “With a belt for holding gadgets and things.” She grinned. “You know?”

“I’ve got a perfectly functional belt for _gadgets and things,”_ Selina patted said belt, which housed her pickpocketing tools and whip holster, “and I don’t work for the GCPD.”

“I know. You’re a criminal.”

“Kind of a strong term, but sure.”

Barbara Lee tilted her head. “You commit crimes. That makes you a criminal.”

“Listen, kiddo.” Selina crouched down until she was at the girl’s height, her eyes suddenly serious. “Sure, I don’t exactly follow what the law tells me to do. Because the law’s stupid, but that’s beside the point. I don’t listen to what they tell me, but in Gotham, that doesn’t make me a criminal.” Barbara Lee frowned. “A _criminal_ in this city is someone who’d be willing to destroy anything in their path to get what they want. To…I don't know, prove a point or something. Validate themselves.” She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what their intentions are. But a real criminal in Gotham City is much worse than me. I don’t hurt people to get what I want. I wouldn’t try to murder people out of some selfish misplaced sense of importance.” Her eyes turned dark. “If I was a criminal in this city, you wouldn’t be alive to stand there and talk to me. You get it?”

“I know that.” Barbara Lee looked back at her with equal seriousness. “I don’t think you do any of those things.”

“Good.” Selina straightened up, part of her wishing she had kept that to herself. Besides, it wasn’t exactly something an eight-year-old kid should be lectured on. “Because I don’t.”

There was a pause between them, the sound of the traffic crowding the road outside the alley the only noise to break the silence.

“Someone did that to you, didn’t they?” Barbara Lee surveyed Selina’s face carefully, searching her expression. It was a vague statement, but they both knew she was referring to what Selina had said moments ago. Even if she hadn’t been specific either, they both knew it wasn’t just a generalization on how she viewed crime. It was pointed. Aimed at something all too specific. “Someone _really_ bad.”

Selina pursed her lips, blocking out the memory of a night in Wayne Manor, a night when she had felt the most safe in her life before everything fell apart. Blocking out the memory of a gunshot that would echo in her head from time to time, even now. Even after it had all ended. “Yeah.”

_He turned you into a killer._

_Because of what he did to you. How you tried to murder him for it. Even if it didn’t work, you still tried. That makes you a killer, just as much as if you had actually succeeded._

_Everything changed because of him._

She didn’t regret it. In fact, if she could have done it all over again, she would. She wasn’t sorry for it, and she still hated Jeremiah Valeska with everything she had. Even if the hatred had dulled over the years, lost its direction as there was nothing she could take it out on, it was still there, lingering beneath the surface. It was a part of her, a part of what had caused her to start drifting away from Bruce, even before he had left the city. 

What had separated them from one another.

_A killer._

_But you don’t have to be like that. You don’t have to be like all of them._ She thought about Cobblepot and Nygma and all the other high-profile criminals of the city who were safely locked away in Blackgate and Arkham. _They_ were the real criminals, they were the ones who attacked without provocation, they were driven by their selfish needs to be the most powerful…

No, she wasn’t like them.

It was just…complicated.

“What are you doing back here, anyway?” She crossed her arms and stared down at Barbara Lee. 

“It’s faster when I go this way. To get back to my house, I mean.” She pointed to the apartment complex that rose up on the other side of the alley. 

Selina frowned. “I told you, it’s dangerous.”

“ _You’re_ here.” The younger girl glanced up at Selina, with such confident trust in her eyes that Selina was abruptly reminded of how young she was. How innocent. “You won’t let anything happen to me.”

“Hey, kid, I don't _live_ in this alley. Just because I happen to be here today doesn’t mean I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Well, then who’s going to keep me safe?” Barbara Lee asked bluntly, and a small smile quirked at the corners of Selina’s lips. 

_I wonder if Jim knows his kid’s more likable than he is._

The thought of the police commissioner reminded her that she was planning a heist at an antique shop tonight. That wasn't something she could put off for later…the man who owned the shop was planning on selling a genuine emerald necklace to a private buyer, and Selina was determined to get it in her hands before then. She just knew whoever was buying it wouldn’t _appreciate_ the necklace like she would. And besides, that person was probably up to their teeth in money. One of Gotham’s elite. It wasn’t like Selina was stealing from anyone who needed it.

Because she was better than the lowlife criminals in this city.

_You’re better than them._

_You’re not good. You’re not a good person. You never have been, not all the way. And you never will be._

_But you’re not like them._

She clenched her jaw.

_You’ll never be like them._

Barbara Lee was still staring up at her, waiting for an answer. Selina blinked, focusing her gaze back on the young girl.

“Um.” She didn’t exactly want to act as a babysitter for this kid to take a shortcut home to her apartment every school day, but then again, she didn’t really have anything better to do. “Okay, fine. I’ll wait for you here when I can." Her expression turned serious again. “But promise me, if I'm not here, that you’ll go home the way you usually do. No back roads, right?”

Barbara Lee nodded. “Yeah.”

“You promise?"

“Uh huh, I promise.” She paused for a moment, looking like she wanted to ask Selina something. The latter waited patiently, still twirling the end of her whip in one gloved hand. The sharp metal tips of the gloves gleamed in the light from the street lamps that were turning on above them. It was almost winter, and getting dark early in the afternoons.

Besides, it was always dark in Gotham.

After waiting nearly a full minute for Barbara Lee to speak and getting no response, Selina asked, “Is there something you're waiting to tell me?”

“No…” she said slowly, scuffing one foot against the ground and hoisting her book bag up over her arm. “Well, yes. I was wondering…” She trailed off again, looking almost nervous, and Selina’s expression softened.

“I’m not gonna bite, kid. What is it you want?”

“You're the cat burglar my dad’s looking for, aren't you?” Selina glanced at her in undisguised surprise when Barbara Lee asked the question. “The one in the newspapers. You stole a diamond from a museum exhibit.”

“Among other things.” Selina knew there was no point in lying to her. _Guess the detective genes are strong in this family, huh._ “Why are you asking me that?” She added on, “And how long have you known that?” It had only been a month since she’d last seen the girl…had she known from the very beginning?

“I figured it out just a minute ago.” Barbara Lee admitted. “My dad was saying you had some kind of un…uniden…”

“Unidentified.” Selina supplied.

“Yeah, that. You had some sort of sharp tool to cut through glass.” She pointed to Selina’s gloves. “Those claws look like they could cut through glass. And my dad says they call you Catwoman."

“Your dad tells you a lot of things.” Selina’s tone was disapproving.

“I ask him about a lot of things.”

“Yeah, I know, you want to be like him or whatever. What else do you know about me?” She paused. “And incidentally, are you going to tell Jim—sorry, I mean your dad, that you met me?”

Barbara Lee considered the last question for a moment before shaking her head. “No. That’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

Selina raised one eyebrow. “Huh?”

“I wanted to see if you’d teach me.” The young girl looked completely earnest in her request. “Teach me to do the sort of things you know how to do, I mean.”

Selina scoffed. “Things like stealing?”

Barbara Lee looked shocked. “ _No._ I meant how you can sneak around without anyone finding you. That’s what I want to learn.”

“I don't see why you'd want to learn that if you're not gonna steal."

“I want to be a detective." she explained with growing impatience. “I told you that already.”

“Your dad was a detective before he became the high and mighty commissioner. Ask him how to do it.”

“But if I was like you, I could actually catch people.”

“Ooh, I don't think Jimothy would like to hear you say that.” Selina laughed despite herself. “Why did you suddenly change your mind? I thought you wanted to be just like dear old dad.”

"They don't catch you. You can hide from them. That means you can hide from the people you’re chasing, too. They won’t know you’re there until you’ve caught them.” Her eyes sparkled.

Selina huffed out a sigh. “Let me think about it.” She genuinely didn’t mind the other, but she also didn’t want to be responsible for a child running around the city. If Barbara Lee got any ideas into her head about actually trying to stop anyone—well, it was so similar to how Bruce had been, so long ago. 

Selina could only think about how he had been the target of so many people. Just when he’d been trying to protect Gotham.

_Did it drive him away?_

She didn’t know.

She didn’t want it to happen again.

But Barbara Lee was looking at her so intently, so pleadingly, that she couldn’t outright say no.

“I’ll have conditions.” she said after a long moment. “And I’ll only teach you what I think you would need to know. If someday—and I mean someday, as in, when you’re an adult like me—you want to put any of it to use."

Barbara Lee smiled widely, clasping her hands together before beginning to walk off down the alley.

“Thanks, Selina.” she called back, skipping over a mud puddle. Selina froze. 

_I didn't tell her my name._

“What did you call me?”

“Selina.” Barbara Lee spun around on her heel, nearly slipping in the mud and landing in a puddle before righting herself again. “Selina Kyle. That’s your name.”

“I never told you that.”

“I know. I looked at your police file. And my dad knows its you stealing the jewels.” Barbara Lee raised her eyebrows, mirroring Selina’s expression a minute before. “I hope he doesn’t catch you.”

“You’re not going to make a great detective if you don’t want the perps to be stopped.”

“Yeah, but you’re different.” Barbara Lee said seriously. “You’re going to help me.”

“Right.” She shook her head. “Jeez, how did I get myself into this?” It was a question directed more at herself, but Barbara Lee answered it anyway.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think you would either.” The younger girl gave her a small smile before turning to walk away towards her family’s apartment. 

\+ + + + + + +

_What does it mean, what does that word mean, why can’t I remember what it means, why can’t I remember who I am, who I’m supposed to be, why can’t I remember…_

There was nothing, nothing, _nothing_. He knew that word well enough. _Engineer._ Sometimes it would sing itself over and over in his head like it was taunting him, and he wanted to reach out and throttle it and feel the life crushed out of it beneath his hands.

_Don’t be stupid, you can’t kill nothing._

And besides, he couldn’t move.

Was he even really there?

_Who was he?_

He tried to think. Tried to figure it out. He knew he was breathing. He had to be breathing, otherwise he would be dead. That was right, wasn’t it? That was what he had learned…

_Who are you, who are you, who are you?_

_Jeremiah._

_Who is that?_

_Who am I?_

He didn’t _know._

He tried to think of the eyes. The ones that were so familiar. They were always staring at him when he thought of them, always the same expression. The hatred was so real, so potent, and he loved it, loved them, wanted to see who those eyes belonged to because he thought…he thought that maybe…

He didn’t know what he thought.

_Because you know nothing._

It was laughing at him _(what was laughing at him, there’s nothing there, it’s just you and the world inside your head)_ and oh, he _really_ wanted to kill it now.

He thought maybe he would push it off the ledge _(what ledge)_ into the darkness below let it burn. That was what happened when you fell. He knew _that._ Falling into the darkness, and burning.

He remembered that. Remembered the burning. He thought he could still feel it sometimes.

But he didn’t know what it was.

_Burned you all away, now you’re nothing, you’re nothing, you’ll never be anything any more, they’ve all forgotten about you…_

Who had forgotten about him?

_Who had forgotten about him?_

He didn’t want to be forgotten.

_Idiot, you can’t even remember who you are._

The mazes were back, dancing in front of his eyes, but not really there because everything was still darkness, and he wanted to see them but it was impossible to pin them down. He knew they were mazes, he knew they were somewhere in his head, and that meant they were some sort of memory.

Weren’t they?

_Mazes are…_

He felt consciousness slipping away again. It happened so often that it had nearly become routine now. He wasn’t so afraid of it anymore, because he knew that he’d wake up again, he knew the thoughts would come back, but he didn’t _want_ to leave them, not right now. Not when he needed so desperately to figure out who he was. 

But there was nothing he could do to hold on to it any longer.

_Mazes were your home. You built…someone built a home._

_A maze._

_You wanted…_

It was beginning to fit together. At least, he wanted it to. Maybe he was simply grasping at straws, but when all the world was darkness and silence aside from the voices in his head, what else was there to do?

At least it provided _some_ sort of answer. One that he could ponder over for the rest of this hellish eternity of lonesomeness.

_You wanted to build it._

There were two things he knew, and he could put them together, he could construct something and draw conclusions and he _knew how to do that,_ even if there was only nothingness around him, he knew how to do it.

_You’re an engineer._

_And that means…_

The darkness was pulling at him now, dragging him away from the lingering thoughts that whispered persistently in his head. It was a losing battle, and he knew he might easily forget all this the next time that his brain decided to work again, but it was still better than nothing.

A final, almost forceful thought spoke itself in the silence of his mind.

_It means you build things._

\+ + + + + + + + 

Jonathan Crane dug through the dimly lit refrigerator with one hand, groping for something edible, as the other hand pulled off the new mask he’d been wearing around the dilapidated apartment. It was a new prototype with nozzles for the fear toxin; ideally, he wanted to have enough pressure to reach a range of fifteen feet instead of five when he needed to attack an enemy with the toxin.

So far, he’d only succeeded in killing an unlucky pigeon that had been perched on the windowsill the day before and had promptly been paralyzed with an adrenaline rush midair. 

Jonathan sighed, emerging from the fridge with a pizza box and slouching across the room to the splintered table in the middle of the cramped kitchen. He sat down, ignoring the food in front of him in favor of the mask, which he turned over in his hands contemplatively, trying to figure out how to enhance it even further.

He wasn't exactly sure _why._

It wasn’t like he was going to use it for anything more than scaring the occasional test subject or immobilizing someone who got in his way. 

He hadn’t planned anything large-scale since the bridges had been rebuilt.

Since their allegedly foolproof plan had fallen to pieces.

After a failure of that level, after they had gone through such extensive work to ensure things wouldn’t go wrong and then they _had…_ well, Jonathan had thought it wise to disappear from the public eye for a while after that. Especially since had been involved in it all. That wasn’t going to gain him much rapport among the GCPD or the criminals of the city.

He sighed again, tossing the mask to the side.

“Nothing ever happens anymore.” he mumbled, looking dully at the pizza in the cardboard box that sat in front of him. _It doesn’t feel like Gotham City anymore._

_It doesn’t feel how its supposed to._

But he wasn't sure how to make it feel different.

He wasn't sure _why_ he would, either.

\+ + + + + + + + +

He didn’t realize at first that he had opened his eyes. He only knew he was staring up at the supremely uninteresting ceiling of the prison cell (he had surmised he was in a prison cell early on; the metallic clanging of the door when it opened and closed, as well as the vague memories that he had done something to warrant enemies had been a sufficient amount of evidence to suggest such a thing) and had been for some time. 

Jeremiah blinked.

_Oh._

A sharp jolt of relief shot through him. He wasn’t dead. _He wasn’t dead._ Of course he had known that. Scientifically speaking, he had unquestionably been alive this entire time. But there had always been that lingering fear he was living in an illusion…not really alive, not really dead, forever trapped in some dark world he could never escape. The logical part of his mind had refused to accept that idea, but the part that teemed with unanswered questions on how he had gotten here and what was going on had latched onto the thought, whispering itself over and over again until he almost started to believe it.

But now he knew he was alive.

He knew things were going to change.

\+ + + + + + + +

Bruce stared, empty-eyed, at the letter in his hand. The designs he’d been sketching just moments ago had slipped from his grasp and fallen to the floor around his feet. The letter, from Arkham Asylum, had been sitting on his desk for the last two days, and he’d assumed it was just the monthly bill they sent him for the funds he’d promised to provide.

He hadn’t expected _this._

His stare was fixed on the words that ran silently across the page, trying to process what he was reading. He didn’t feel shocked, didn’t even feel surprised, although not in a million years would he have anticipated news like this. It was simply emptiness, a quiet acceptance of what he was reading…or at least it felt like that at first.

After all, there had been some small, easily deniable part of him that had always known this would happen.

Somehow, he had known.

_“Potential improvement…”_

He crumpled the paper in his fist, dragging his eyes away from the words. And suddenly, without warning, the emptiness inside him shattered. Burning anger flooded through his mind, and he tore the paper in two, crushing it even more before tossing it into the fire. The corners blackened and shriveled up before collapsing into ashes, and Bruce stared at the charred remains as his eyes flashed with bitterness.

He’d known it would happen, had suspected it all along with something suspiciously like a morbid kind of hope, but it _shouldn’t_ happen. It wasn’t _supposed_ to.

_He wasn’t ever supposed to come back._

Bruce shook his head, his fists still clenched as the unwanted question whispered itself in his head.

_So why did you bother to let them keep him alive?_

_Why do you pay that goddamn asylum every month to prolong the sorry excuse for a life he was somehow able to keep? Why couldn’t you let it go right away, why couldn’t you have been the one to kill him once and for all, why did you let it come to this?_

He knew the answer, knew it was too complicated for even himself to face. Knew that he never would have killed the man, no matter how far he was pushed, because that was what he’d wanted from Bruce. That was how he’d wanted to break him. He’d wanted to drag Bruce down to his level.

_But why did you keep him alive?_

That was where it got more complicated.

Bruce knew the letter was simply a standard requirement on Arkham’s part. “Potential improvement” in a patient—a brain-dead one, no less—was no indication that Bruce had anything to worry about. Jeremiah Valeska had fallen into toxic chemicals, for god’s sakes, that wasn’t exactly something Bruce would expect recovery from _anyone._ And if, by some abnormality of nature, he was able to somehow _not die_ from that, it didn’t meant anything would return to how it was before. 

It didn’t mean that they would go back to how they used to be.

Enemies.

Fighting one another.

Bruce frowned at the blazing flames in the fireplace, wishing he didn’t feel a twinge of regret when he thought about that. Wishing he could be happy about it.

Wishing he could at least be _content._

He sighed, turning away and clasping his hands behind his back as his eyes strayed toward the heap of armor that sat piled on the floor of the apartment living room. He’d been testing some of the new features Lucius had installed, and every time he laid hands on the black kevlar, the same thought had run through his head over and over again, incessantly whispering until he was forced to listen.

_You need to go home._

_They’re waiting for you._

Bruce shivered. Yes, the city was waiting for him. Maybe they didn’t know it, maybe they didn’t understand yet that they needed someone to save them, or they simply hadn’t even given it consideration. Nevertheless, they were waiting for someone to pull them out of the dark, whether they knew it or not, and that person had to be him.

But they wouldn’t be the only ones waiting.

_Don’t be ridiculous. You’re just worried because of what the letter said. You’re letting your imagination run away from you. Even if you go back home, it’s not going to change anything between the two of you. It’s not going to make things go back to how they were before._

_He’s never going to defy you again._

Bruce shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out memories of before. Memories so far in the past that they didn’t seem real anymore. 

_You can’t let those things stop you from doing what you have to do._

_You can't let him stop you from going back._

He knew what was discouraging him from returning to Gotham. It was the same thing that pulled him closer with an irresistible urge. The same thing that kept him awake at nights, his mind tormented by the uncertainty of everything, the uncertainty of how he felt and how he was supposed to feel. How he longed for that conflict with as much energy as he despised it. Certainly it wasn’t the only thing on his mind, but it was strong enough to always be a lingering presence somewhere in his thoughts, somewhere just out of reach, far enough away that he couldn’t grab onto it and crush it out of existence.

_You can’t let him stop you._

_You have to stop living in the past._

Bruce sighed, his hands coming up to run through his hair as his shoulders slumped defeatedly. No matter what he told himself, it was always the same conclusion he drew. The same path he always ended up on. He was going around in circles, and his arguments for staying away from Gotham—from _his_ city—were the same arguments for going back. 

_Just make up your mind. Make your decision before you’re the one who goes insane._

Bruce huffed out a humorless laugh.

Nothing made sense.

\+ + + + + + + +

“Miss Quinzel?” An Arkham nurse poked his head around the corner of the door leading into the break room. “Are you all right?”

Ecco didn’t hear him at first. But when he repeated the question, louder this time, she looked up abruptly, her dark eyes shining with tears that hovered on her lashes and threatened to roll down her face. One trembling hand came up to quickly brush the tears away, although there was no point in trying to hide the bloodshot whites of her eyes. 

He gave her small frown, trying to gauge the source of her tears. She had been fairly skilled at flying under the radar during her time at Arkham, but it was in the employees’ nature to harbor at least a little suspicion for one another. After countless breakouts, conspiracies that spread through the asylum like viruses, corrupted authorities, it was nearly impossible to trust anyone completely. It was the same for Ecco, just as it was for them, but she was always a little more wary. A little more intent on making sure she stayed on everyone’s good side. 

Because she was exactly the kind of person to do the things they would suspect. That was why she was _here_. It was why she had waited for so long. All this had been was a drawn-out, agonizingly long vigil until the inevitable moment she'd known, in her heart, would come.

When he would finally return.

She kept her face composed, even as the tears continued to brim in her eyes. It was part of her training, part of who she was. Who she had always been for _him._ Who he needed her to be.

And now her loyalty was beginning to pay off.

“Are you all right?” the man repeated, his grip tightening around the door. Ecco drew in a shaking breath, not quite trusting herself at first if she would be able to speak. But she clung onto the few shreds of composure she still held, and nodded.

“Yes. Sorry, I…” It was usually so easy to come up with an answer or excuse for whatever she might need, but her mind was so distracted at the moment that she couldn’t think of one. “I’m sorry.”

“I was just wondering what was wrong.” he said slowly, forehead still creased in a frown. “You…”

"It's nothing.” she interrupted, shaking her head sharply and getting to her feet. Her gaze dropped to the ground as she purposefully avoided his eyes, drawing attention away from her tears. “Just…just some family stuff going on, y’know?” 

_That shouldn’t rouse suspicion._

He paused for a moment, then sympathy replaced the confusion on his face. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Yeah.” She cleared her throat and blinked, hoping he would leave the conversation at that. To her relief, he only gave her one more sympathetic glance before leaving the room.

Ecco sat back down, alone again. The cracked fluorescent lights blinked and flickered above her, casting small shadows through the room where they fluttered in dark shapes against the walls. She buried her face in her hands, tasting salt on her lips from the tears, and tried to breathe.

Her heart felt like it was hammering at a million beats per minute. 

_He’s going to come back._

_Finally, finally, he’s coming back._

The smile she’d been trying to hide trembled across her features.

She had known it, had known things would change. That something would break the terrible monotony, that she was reaching for something that would start everything else in motion. 

And it was finally beginning.

_He’s there. He's been there all this time. And now he’s coming back, somehow he’s coming back, and you…_

Ecco bit down on her lip, twisting her hands together in her lap. A thousand emotions raged through her mind at once and she couldn't sort out what was what.

_You’ll be here for him._

_You’ll always be here for him._

\+ + + + + + +

_If an engineer builds, that means you must have…_

_You were going to…_

_No, that’s not it. There’s something wrong about that. It wasn’t you. It wasn't just you._

He thought as hard as he could, reaching desperately for something he didn’t know. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to find.

_We were…_

His eyes snapped opened again.

_We were going to rebuild the city._

And that thought was the most frustrating one yet. Because he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t understand. The pieces were beginning to fit together, but the picture wouldn’t form, and he knew it was because he was missing the most important part.

The part that continued to hide from his memory no matter how hard he tried to find it again.

_We were going to…_

_Who’s we?_

He knew…he _knew_ there had been a time when he wasn’t alone. 

But he didn’t know who it had been with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, if you want! <3 Thanks for reading!


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

He remembered _her._

They would watch each other for hours on end, and he always studied her face carefully during those times, knowing she would have to leave for the day. He didn’t want it to slip from his memory, even if she would come back again. 

Her name was Ecco, and she used to work for him. Back before…well, before whatever had happened. Back when he was still an engineer (he was determined to keep that word in his mind, to not let it go again in case he forgot entirely). She was _still_ working for him, apparently, otherwise why would she be here?

Wherever _here_ was.

That was still part of the unfinished puzzle that he had yet to piece together.

But it would come to him. He knew it would. He’d gotten this far, hadn’t he? After an eternity of being lost in the darkness of his own mind, after being so certain that things would never change. 

And this was just the beginning.

She didn’t say much, only stared at him with a mixture of something like awe and devotion in her eyes. He wondered if he could use that to his advantage. 

_If you ever get any further than this._

He hated how inconsistent his thoughts would be. One moment he was so certain that things would get better, that he’d escape this place, escape this _mind_ of his that was so irritatingly insufficient for practically everything. But then the next moment he would think with equal certainty that there would never be anything more to his life than what he had now. Because after all, what did the world hold for him? Who was he, in this insignificant existence of his? 

Maybe he had been someone once, but not anymore.

No one knew who he was.

_He_ didn't know.

Something was missing, a part of _him_ was missing. The part that would answer the burning question of his identity. The part that would answer _everything,_ if only he could grasp it.

_What are you missing?_

He thought that maybe, if he could just remember what it was, things would change. He would escape this monotony, would discover everything he’d forgotten…he’d be someone again. If he could remember…

But he didn’t.

Sometimes, when he would look at Ecco, he would see something in her eyes he didn’t like. As if she was concealing a secret from him. Hiding information. It wasn’t as if they’d spoken yet (well, it wasn’t as if _he_ had spoken) and he really couldn’t expect her to predict everything he wanted to know. Predict the answers he was looking for and give them to him.

But there was something different about this. She was _hiding_ something.

From _him._

It was just another layer to this whole mess. Another puzzle for him to figure out, a maze for him to try and escape.

_ A maze. _

At least he knew how to do that.

\+ + + + + + + +

Ecco paced restlessly back and forth across the worn carpet of her apartment, hands coming up to tangle in her hair. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, but her gaze darted back and forth, watching the shadows from outside flit around the apartment as if she was afraid they were watching her.

_You can’t tell him._

She paused to stare out the window, watching the crowded streets with flashing headlights and vague shapes of pedestrians milling around below. There was something comforting in the chaos of the city, something that could distract her from the chaos inside her own head.

_You can never tell him._

She had known, in the very moment he’d met her eyes for the first time after the years of wondering if he ever would, that he didn’t remember what had happened. His memory was still there, in fractured pieces…she could see it in his expression that he at least had an idea of who he was. Who he had been.

But he didn’t remember enough. 

Not enough to answer the question she knew he was longing to ask.

About what had happened to him.

About _who_ had done this.

That was the part that Ecco knew she could never say. 

It stung like venom whenever she thought about it. How she was betraying him in the cruelest way possible with her insatiable jealousy, withholding the information she knew he wanted— _needed_ —in order to realize who he was supposed to be. Because she knew, beyond a doubt, what was missing from the picture he was trying to construct in his mind.

She knew who was missing.

But she couldn’t bring herself to lose Jeremiah again. Couldn't bear the thought of wilting in the shadow of the only person who had ever mattered to him. Only _really_ mattered.

_He needs to know._

_You need to tell him._

She bit down on her lip, staring hard at the ground as the sounds of the city outside the window roared in her ears.

_I can’t._

It was _selfish._ It was destroying everything she’d built up over the past eight years… _eight years, all your work, all your waiting, and now you're going back on your word. You’re too much of a coward for this, you’re too much of a coward to do the one job that’s ever mattered._

_The one job that he needs you to do._

But she couldn’t tell him.

Couldn't tell him that Bruce Wayne was the key to unlocking everything else inside his mind.

And anyway, what good would it do? Wayne had left Gotham years ago, after reunification with the mainland had been settled. No one had heard from him, although the new Wayne Enterprises building was in the midst of construction. No one knew if he would even come back, and news of him had died out of the spotlight after several years had past and no sign of his return came. 

In fact, Ecco tried to reason with herself, maybe it was better if Jeremiah didn't know.

If he wasn’t allowed to remember. 

_Oh, you know that’s a lie._

_You know it’s the only thing that matters._

The sting of guilt had melted away to a blank numbness by now, and Ecco barely felt the hot tears that glistened in her eyes. No matter what she told herself, no matter what how hard she tried to believe her own words, she knew she never would.

_It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered._

\+ + + + + + + + + +

“Okay, now you’re gonna jump.” Selina crossed her arms and stared up at the brick wall that ran along either side of the alley, watching as Barbara Lee finished pulling herself up to the top. It wasn’t a very high wall—only about seven feet off the ground—but to a kid who’d never done this before, Selina knew it was probably intimidating at best. “Like I showed you.”

The younger girl nervously tugged at the end of one of her braids, kicking her legs over the side of the wall. “Can you…can you show me again?”

Normally, Selina would have retorted with a sarcastic remark, but if she was being honest, she was beginning to enjoy the younger girl’s company. After years of aimlessly trying to fill the emptiness in her life with petty crime and escapades around the city, it was nice to have someone else around. Even if that someone was the kid of the police commissioner currently attempting to arrest her.

So instead, she quickly scaled the wall, hands latching onto the gaps between the bricks and effortlessly swinging one leg over the top. Barbara Lee gave her a wide-eyed look of admiration, mouth hanging open, and Selina cracked a small smile.

“Keep that up and you’ll unhinge your jaw.” The red-haired girl shut her mouth quickly, but kept staring. Selina sighed, although she had to admit she appreciated the respect. “So. Watch me. It’s very simple once you get the hang of it, y’know?” Without hesitation, she leapt off the wall, landing in the middle of the alley in a crouch, one hand instinctively latching onto the whip at her side. Straightening up, she gestured for Barbara Lee to copy the movement. “Trust me, you can do it.”

_Oh, great. Encouragement? You’re encouraging a kid now?_ She shook her head. _That can’t be good._

Barbara Lee still looked unconvinced, and Selina raised an eyebrow. What else was she supposed to say as a means of motivation? No one had ever bothered to teach _her_ anything when she was younger, even when she’d first started living on the streets, and she’d picked up her skills out of necessity. It wasn’t as if she’d gone through a step-by-step process to become who she was. “Your dad would do it if he had to, right?”

Barbara Lee bit down on her lip, nodding. Selina crossed her arms.

“Okay. So do it.”

“I don’t know…”

“Listen up, kid,” she interrupted, taking a step back, “I don’t have all day, and your parents are gonna start wondering where you’re at. And then old Jimothy will find me, and he’ll put me behind bars, and you won’t have a chance to learn anything I’m trying to teach you—”

She broke off when Barbara Lee wordlessly copied her movement, slipping off the edge of the wall and landing shakily on her feet beside her. Selina glanced down at her, a smirk hovering on her lips.

“Huh, look at that.”

“Was that right?” Barbara Lee’s face was beaming as she craned her neck to look up at Selina, brushing dust off her school uniform. Selina shrugged.

“If I was a criminal, I wouldn’t want to cross paths with you.” 

_Oh, so now it’s not only encouragement, now you’re playing along with her little games._

_Great._

Unaware of anything that was passing through Selina’s head, Barbara Lee grinned. “Really?”

“No. They’d notice you right away and you’d be dead before you hit the ground.” Seeing the immediately crestfallen expression on the girl’s face, Selina tried to backtrack her words. “But you’ll learn. With more practice, you’ll learn. And hey, maybe you’ll beat your dad in a case someday.” She gave her a slight smile.

Barbara Lee raised one eyebrow. “Maybe I’ll be the one to catch _you_ someday.”

Selina laughed at that, but not with as much skepticism as she’d anticipated. In truth, she saw potential in the kid, even if she still didn’t understand why Barbara Lee would want to go through all this trouble when she could just be a cop when she was older. 

Well, she did understand it a little bit, maybe. She knew firsthand from Jim Gordon himself that sometimes the GCPD was less than stellar at getting their work done. Maybe it would take someone like his daughter who didn’t mind defying the methods she knew in order to finish the job.

To protect Gotham.

Selina’s face fell as her expression became stormy.

_At least there's one person in this city who won’t abandon it without a word of warning._

She hoped so, in any case.

\+ + + + + + + +

“Geez, what a dump, amiright? Glad I didn’t stick around any longer than I had to.”

Jeremiah’s eyes snapped open, his gaze darting around the shadowy cell. The voice that had spoken was gratingly familiar, and memories he had all but forgotten came crashing back to the corners of his mind, nearly clear enough for him to actually recall what they were. 

“Y’know this used to be where I got locked up when I did my stint at Arkham?” the voice continued cheerfully. “The ol’ homestead, and now it’s yours. Look at us, huh? One and the same.”

_One and the same._

He inhaled sharply.

_J…_

“You know they didn’t even bother to put your name on the door.” The voice was more clear now, but Jeremiah still couldn’t see who it belonged to.

Yet, in some small part of his mind, he knew.

“They’ve forgotten about you. Don’t care enough to remember anything you did to this city.” A sardonic chuckle tinged the words. “You’re nothing, just a nameless corpse rotting away in this place, Miah.”

Jeremiah swallowed hard. 

_Miah._

He saw the faint outline of a figure sitting in the metal chair in the corner. The one Ecco had brought in so she could keep him company during those long, long days before his mind had even come back to life. The figure’s silhouette was jarringly familiar as it tilted its head at him, staring with eyes that he’d known for his—no, for _their_ —entire lives.

_Jerome._

He remembered now.

_Your brother._

_Your…_

Was he? 

He stared hard at the figure, trying to figure this new development out. He felt surprisingly calm, but his mind teemed with unanswered questions. Slowly, he remembered a empty penthouse, remembered cowering in the corner of a dark room, waiting with growing dread for what he knew was coming…

Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed.

_Pathetic._

The all-too-familiar rush of panic that he associated with the blurry shadows of his past rose up, but it didn’t feel like it was really there. It didn’t feel like _he_ was panicking, only vaguely remembering a time he’d nearly forgotten.

_Had_ forgotten, until now.

“I honestly believed in you, broski.” The voice— _Jerome’s_ voice—was speaking again, and Jeremiah forced himself to listen. “I thought you’d at least _try_ to live up to everything I left behind.”

_Left behind…_

_He’s dead._

_He died._

He remembered when Jerome had died.

They had been standing on a rooftop, and someone else had been there, someone else had killed Jerome because…because Jerome had _wanted_ to die.

_He’s dead._

He remembered the sound of the shot, the way he’d felt his entire body freeze up at the sound even though he’d known he wasn’t the victim.

The shot…

He blinked.

_“We both want something from each other, right?”_

Had they really been on a roof? He seemed to remember an alley. But then, his memory was faulty at the moment, to say the least. 

Jerome was watching him from the darkness. Waiting. Jeremiah stared back and realized he wasn’t afraid.

_“You want to be free, and I…”_

He wasn’t afraid of his brother.

_Was he ever really your brother?_

_“I want you to see what I’ve been trying to tell you for so long.”_

Yes, it was undoubtedly an alley he remembered. But then, how had Jerome fallen from the roof? And why had his brother been the one holding the gun?

It irritated him that things weren’t making sense.

Jerome smiled at him. Jeremiah could see his face now, the scars that framed his features and the dark eyes that used to be identical to Jeremiah’s own. The latter realized he didn’t know what color his eyes were now. He remembered them being faded to a silver hue after the insanity gas— _the insanity gas?_ that was a whole other new memory entirely—but he wasn’t sure if that had been altered after everything that had happened.

Because he still didn’t know _what_ had happened. 

Didn’t know how he had gotten here in the first place.

There was something missing, some very, _very_ important piece of the puzzle…

_What was it?_

He knew something was missing.

“Well, at least you’re not scared anymore.” Jerome leaned forward in his seat to look his brother square in the eye. Jeremiah would have scoffed at that if he could speak.

_Why should I be scared of you? You’re dead. Just a figment of my mind._

“Wow, perceptive too.” His twin nodded admiringly. “Now that’s what I call growth, kiddo.”

It wasn’t growth, Jeremiah wanted to argue. It was just common sense. He was simply hallucinating his brother’s presence, or imagining it, or whatever he wanted to call it. Jerome was dead, and this ghost he was looking at was just some projection of his own thoughts. Nothing more and nothing less. And certainly nothing to be afraid of.

_ You used to be afraid. _

“But really,” Jerome continued, springing to his feet and beginning to pace across the room as Jeremiah’s eyes followed him silently, “I have to say I’m disappointed. You haven’t exactly lived up to the expectations of becoming the terror of Gotham.”

_Strange as it may seem,_ Jeremiah thought sarcastically, looking away, _I don’t care what you think. And being “the terror of Gotham” was never the goal._

“What _was_ the goal then, hmm?” Jerome sat down on the edge of the bed, kicking his heels against the metal frame. Jeremiah’s gaze narrowed. “What exactly didja do that ended you up in the funny farm?”

_What did you do?_

_What was the reason behind all this?_

He couldn’t answer that. Not when he didn’t even know what _this_ was.

“Oh,” Jerome grinned widely, bouncing up and down on the edge of the bed, “You don’t remember.” The metal springs creaked, and Jeremiah couldn’t help but be impressed at the attention to detail this apparent hallucination.

He also faintly remembered a time when he never would have admitted to anyone else that he didn't feel completely in control of his own mind. 

_Why not? Why would anyone want to be restricted like that?_

He’d spent so many years caught up in his mind, unable to escape. It was almost freeing, this strange kind of world—some, he thought, may call it insanity, but they didn’t know what they were talking about. They hadn’t lived in what felt like an eternal hell of emptiness, knowing they were locked inside their own head.

Anything else was better than that.

Even if it required him to sacrifice control of his own thoughts.

He didn’t want _anyone_ controlling him ever again. Not even himself.

And if people wanted to call him crazy for it, he didn't care. It was beyond their ability to comprehend such a thing, that was all. Even if he had been one of those people in years gone by.

Well, he decided, his former self simply hadn’t experienced the crushing horror of their mind being trapped in nothingness. 

Jerome was still grinning at him maliciously, and Jeremiah felt another surge of familiarity. Memories were still continuing to elude him, no matter how hard he tried to piece them together, but he remembered enough. He remembered being afraid of Jerome, being afraid of becoming like Jerome…

Because they were brothers.

They were family.

_No._

The thought was sudden and forceful, sending a shiver through Jeremiah’s inert form. The single word echoed itself over and over in his head, and he could see Jerome’s smile falter for a moment before resuming its position on his face. 

_No._

_We’re not family._

Jeremiah blinked, trying to process the thought. 

_Not your real family._

_You and him…it was purely circumstantial. You just happened to have the same mother, the same face. The same mind._

Oh, but that definitely wasn’t true.

They did _not_ have the same mind. That was something he knew well enough. He felt a defensive tug at his thoughts for even letting a thing like that cross his mind, and he quickly pushed every trace of those words aside.

_We may have been brothers by blood, but he was never…_

_He was never the family you were supposed to have._

Jerome continued watching him silently. His eyes betrayed nothing and his smile never changed.

_But then, who was?_

The answer felt close, so close, but it slipped through his mental grasp yet again. Eluding him as always, like a shadow in the nighttime, disappearing into the darkness all around and becoming indistinguishable from everything else.

“You really don’t remember, do you?” Jerome repeated, leaning closer to his twin. Jeremiah avoided eye contact. _Don’t be stupid, he’s not real._ “You don’t remember any of it.”

He knew this was his own mind taunting him now. It had to be, because Jerome was in his head, which meant he was inventing this entire conversation of his own accord, and _that_ meant he knew everything Jerome—or this imagined version of Jerome—knew. But those things were locked away from his consciousness, and now they were mocking him, pulling him closer before they vanished yet again.

It was so terribly frustrating. How was he able to remember his brother whom he hated (there was no doubt in his mind that he hated Jerome, although what his twin had done to warrant such a thing was still a little hazy…somehow or another, it was what had inadvertently led him here, to this place, to this broken state of consciousness, and that alone was grounds for hatred, anyway) but not the most important part that was still missing? The part he _knew_ was missing, but couldn’t make sense of it?

He hated Jerome, and he hated not knowing, and—

_Hate…_

Something stirred in the back of his mind.

_“In the end, there’s no difference.”_

His jaw clenched.

There was something…

He was staring into those eyes again, those dark, dark eyes he knew so deeply, and even though he knew they would disappear like they always did, leaving him with more questions than answers, he couldn’t help but hope they would stay this time. Hoped they wouldn’t abandon him like they always did…

_ Who are you? _

_ Please, please tell me who you are. _

“Desperate.” Jerome commented calmly, his smile slipping away to an expression that was almost serious. But still mocking…always still mocking his brother for his ineptitude. “It’s desperate, you know that, right? _You_ are. Wasting all your time trying to bring back something that you don’t even understand. You don’t even know what it _is.”_

Jeremiah tried to ignore him. He couldn’t admit to Jerome why he needed to answer this question so badly. Couldn’t explain how it was the only thing that would finally drag him back into existence…a _real_ existence.

How it was his reason for living, and somehow he knew _that_ , but he didn’t know what it was.

It had to do with those dark eyes he saw in his mind, with the certainty he held that hatred was what had connected him to this unknown _thing…_ it had to be a person, it had to. 

And he didn’t know any more than that.

“What if you never remember?” Jerome was saying, and Jeremiah wished he could throttle his twin to death ( _he’s already dead_ ). “What if that part of your mind isn’t just hidden right now?” His eyes glittered. “What if it’s gone, Miah? Did you think about _that?”_

He had. He’d spent night after night, tormented by the uncertainty in his own memories. If there was really no way to bring back the things he’d forgotten. He’d thought about it endlessly, but hearing Jerome speak it aloud was the breaking point. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out any trace of his brother, but there was nothing he could do to stop him from speaking.

“And you’ll stay here forever. Days and months and years doing _nothing._ Being no one.” He laughed. “Just like you were always afraid of.”

_You’re no one._

Anger sparked inside him like a white-hot flame.

_You’ve always been no one._

That was wrong. It had to be wrong. He _had_ been someone, he would be remembered. People would know who he was, they would remember _him,_ not Jerome, never Jerome…

His breath caught in his throat.

_I’m not you, Jerome. I’m more than you. I’m better than you ever were._

“Oh yeah?” his twin shot back, unruffled. “Kind of weird of you to say that, considering you’re the one locked away in an asylum where everyone thinks you’re a brain-dead corpse.”

_Stop. Stop it._

Jerome was laughing now, the familiar sound ringing through the cell, and memories he couldn’t hold onto flitted across Jeremiah’s mind, too broken to make any sense of. He didn’t even know if he wanted to remember them at this point.

_He’s lying. He has to be lying. They all…_

“And they remember me.” Jerome’s laughter broke off suddenly, and he stared straight at his twin intently. “They’ll always remember me, so it doesn’t matter I’m dead. I’ve made a name for myself in Gotham, I made an entire city _fear_ me."

_They were afraid of me, too. I made them see…_

“Oh, don’t lie to yourself like that.” Jerome scoffed. “You really think anyone out there,” he gestured toward the cell door, “ever thinks about you anymore? Criminals come and go in this town every day. You’ve gotta be like _me_ if you ever wanna be remembered, and, as you were so fond of saying,” another smile spread across his face, “you’re _not.”_

_“We’ve never been the same, and you know it.”_

And then Jerome was standing in front of him, gripping a knife and cornering his brother in a darkened room. His eyes gleamed maliciously and Jeremiah shuddered as that strange detached sense of panic rushed back again, except this time it didn’t feel so far away. This time, it was a part of him, and he could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest, waiting for the inevitable moment when his brother would finally kill him…

_“Now we’re getting started.”_

A moment later and the memory was gone, and Jeremiah stared at the figure of Jerome that his mind had conjured up, still shaken at how lifelike that fleeting moment had been. He was certain he had lived it before…how else would he have been able to create something so vivid in his mind? 

_What happened back then?_

“Looks like you’ve dug your own grave on this one, Miah.” Jerome chortled, getting to his feet and pacing back and forth in the cell. “The only way you can get what _you_ want is to become like me, become _more_ than I was, but you refuse to do it. You’ve always refused.”

_No. You’re wrong. This isn’t able you, Jerome…this hasn’t been about you for a long time. Whatever happened, whatever brought us—me—here, it was beyond you. You weren’t important._

_You were not important, Jerome._

“But I made you what you are.” his brother hissed, his scarred face twisting into a scowl. “Like it or not, you wouldn’t be here without me.”

_That’s a lie. It wasn’t you. You may have started this, but that was a long time ago._

_This has nothing to do with you anymore._

“So who does it have to do with, then?” Jerome giggled, anger still bright in his eyes but smile firmly in place. “Oh, right, that’s where you’re stuck, isn’t it? That’s what you _can’t remember.”_ He rocked back and forth on his heels. “You used to be so smart, remember that? That scheming lil mind of yours…oh, you could come up with _anything.”_ He shrugged, feigning sympathy. “Guess that’s all changed, huh?”

_No, stop._

_Don’t say that._

It was a _lie._ A terrible, terrible lie. He just needed time…he _had_ to have time, he had to remember…

He had to remember.

“Such a pity.” Jerome shook his head. “All that _genius_ you always said you had, gone to waste.”

_Please, please stop it._ He knew it was all in his mind, it was his own thoughts attacking him, blaming him, turning on him, but he didn’t know how to keep them away, didn’t know how to drown them out. He felt so _helpless,_ so trapped, and he didn't know what to do…

_Just leave me alone._

He had to find a way to escape this. He had to find answers to his questions.

_Please._

The laughter was rushing through his head now, and it wasn’t his own, his mind wasn’t his own, it was controlling him, and he had to get out, he had to tear away the restrictions if he ever wanted it to go away, but he didn’t know how, he didn't know, he didn’t know anything…

_Just stop it!_

“Stop…”

Jeremiah tensed, staring at his brother with wide, unbelieving eyes.

The word had been no more than a breath, barely audible even to himself. At first he wasn’t entirely sure that he had spoken at all, of if it was simply his imagination running away with him again.

But no…no, it had been real.

It had been _him._

He felt his chest closing up as he tried to calm his nerves at the thought. If he could have, he’d have smiled, but as it was he had to be satisfied with a glitter of triumph in his eyes. Jerome was smiling wide enough for both of them, leaning forward, so close that Jeremiah thought, if he was real, he could have reached out and touched him.

But that was furthest away from his mind right now. Every thought was focused solely on what had happened just moments before. 

Moments, but it had seemed like centuries as his thoughts spun and gathered themselves and fell apart again.

It was the first word he’d spoken in all of eight years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so I know I said a while back that this would only be a few chapters longer before I move into the next fic, but obviously it's gone on a bit longer than I'd anticipated...that being said, I'll probably try to start wrapping this particular story arc pretty soon (the last fic in this series will deal with post-season 5 stuff, so I want this fic to go through the end of the finale). Anyway, the point to that is thanks for being patient with how long I'm drawing this story out, and thanks for reading!


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time...next one should be a bit longer, and will start wrapping up the S5 portion of this fic (I know I've been saying that for like the past 7 chapters but it's true this time!)

**Chapter Thirty**

_Six Months Later_

Jeremiah watched silently as an inmate he didn’t know shuffled a tattered deck of cards into a stack before dealing them out to the others clustered around the metal table. An orderly wandered into his line of vision, lost in thought as he scribbled notes down on a clipboard, and Jeremiah’s gaze flickered over to him for a split second before he remembered he had to keep up the comatose act. 

_You’re not ready to come back. Not yet._

_They’re not ready for you._

At Ecco’s insistence, the Arkham wardens had allowed him to frequent the rec room after the first few months they’d learned he’d regained consciousness. They’d been reluctant, of course…murmurs had gone around about the issues that could arise in letting the criminal who had “caused all the trouble before reunification” mingle with the other inmates, but in the end, they’d given in without too much protest (truth be told, they simply didn’t care enough about any of the inmates to waste energy on arguing the matter).

Jeremiah had heard some of the things they said, and he’d smiled to himself.

_Looks like you weren’t completely forgotten after all._

He’d learned why he was in the asylum, as well. He’d asked Ecco about it a month before (reluctant, even in his curiosity, that he hadn’t been able to come up with the answer himself) and she’d told him everything. About how he’d been the one to destroy the bridges that were now rebuilt, how the city had fallen into chaos, and how, in the midst of it all, he’d had enemies who were responsible for what had happened to him: a fall into a vat of chemicals.

Well, maybe not _everything._

He could still see she was keeping something from him. And moreover, her story didn’t add up. The vague way she insisted on describing the incident at the chemical plant, how she didn’t mention a single thing he had done during that time when Gotham had been isolated from the mainland, or even why he’d bombed the bridges in the first place…

Some things _definitely_ didn’t add up. And there was nothing in her story that helped him begin to remember the missing link that still eluded him.

But that wasn’t his main concern at the moment. After all, it had been a grueling six months.

He’d found that speaking was much more difficult than he’d anticipated. It was easy enough to _think_ the words, but voicing them was another matter entirely. After nearly a decade of neglect, his voice wasn’t exactly what it used to be, along with the vocal cords being damaged from the chemicals. He wasn’t sure what his voice _used_ to sound like, but he was fairly sure it wasn’t the same anymore. 

Quite honestly, he didn’t really care. It was the least of his worries, in the grand scheme of things.

And until he figured out the missing pieces of the world he’d been dragged back into, he wasn’t going to let on that there was anything going on in his head, anyway. Let the orderlies think he was still brain-dead…sure, it was somewhat damaging to his ego to hear the things they said and the insults they hurled at him, not knowing he was listening to every word, but he was resilient. He had to be. In the long run, it would pay off.

And then he could kill them when the time came.

He often found himself thinking things like that, and sometimes it would confuse him. It wasn’t as if he wanted to go out of his way to be a senseless killer—he had more style than that, and slaughter for the sake of it wasn’t exactly appealing to him—but that didn’t mean he was opposed to a little healthy revenge when the time came. It was as if there were two conflicting beings inside his mind…the cold, rational logician who never hesitated to point out the flaws in his sometimes-faltering thoughts, and the other side, the darker side that would sometimes rear its head, whispering that he didn’t need to be in control, he didn’t need to hold back, and there was no point in overthinking things if he was going to do it in the end anyway. 

The voice was compelling, but Jeremiah was still wary of it. 

The things it told him reminded him too much of Jerome.

He knew well enough that his twin wasn’t really there. He knew it was all in his head, and anything Jerome said was just a manifestation of his own thoughts. Memories had been coming back more and more over the past half a year, memories of being children at the circus together, memories of how he’d finally gotten away…

That was where they had begun to grow hazy again.

But he remembered Jerome.

Sometimes, his twin—or the version of him in Jeremiah’s mind, at least—would appear again, and there was no way to ignore him. He would sit in the corner of the cell, or lounge against the wall in the rec room, always smiling, always watching Jeremiah with a look almost like a predator in his eyes. Sometimes he would speak, but Jeremiah ignored him as best he could; first, because he knew Jerome wasn’t really there, and secondly, because he couldn’t risk blowing his cover of being unaware of his surroundings. 

That didn’t mean it wasn’t insufferable, though.

On this particular day, Jerome was whistling a rambling melody as he stood with arms crossed behind the inmates playing cards at the table, looking over their shoulders as they picked up their individual stacks and began the game. It didn’t look like any of them knew exactly what they were playing, or how to do it, but that didn’t bother them. And it made for some mildly entertaining viewership on Jeremiah’s part at least.

Despite his dedication to the role he was playing, it did get horribly monotonous.

Jerome was mercifully silent today, and Jeremiah didn’t pay much attention to him. His gaze was focused on the inmates themselves as he listened to their murmured voices rising above all the others around him. 

“Hey, you can’t use that one!” A sudden shout broke the comparative quiet, and Jeremiah blinked as a slightly ripped playing card was flung halfway in his direction before spinning to a stop on the floor. He allowed himself to give it a quick look before anyone came by, nothing but his eyes moving. The moment he caught sight of the card, he felt his breath begin to stutter in his throat.

_“Without me…”_

He tensed as memories took over his line of vision, swallowing up everything else.

_“Without me, you’re just…”_

It was a joker card. He could still see it, but he wasn’t in the rec room anymore, he wasn’t in Arkham anymore, he was standing on a rickety metal walkway, feeling his breath burn in his throat and his eyes sting with unshed tears as he stared at the figure he was holding onto like a lifeline.

_“…you’re…”_

The joker card he’d been holding lay crumpled on the ground between them. 

_Between them._

_Them._

_Us._

He saw the eyes. _Those_ eyes. The ones he’d been seeing in the darkness for so long. Staring at him with so much hatred. They were watching him now, burning with a furious misery that Jeremiah simultaneously loved and felt a crushing, horrible guilt for. 

_This is happening because of me._

His hands closed around the other’s wrists in a vise-like grip.

_Who are you?_

He couldn’t see the figure’s face yet. Only those eyes. He stared hard, and time seemed suspended for an agonizingly long moment.

_“…you’re just…”_

A joke. 

_A joke._

Incomplete.

He was incomplete.

_They_ were.

_You need me. You need me. You’ve always needed me…_

_Who are you?_

_“Without a punchline.”_

And then he was falling.

Pure terror rushed through him, stronger than anything he felt before. Not because he knew what would happen, not because he’d lived this before and he knew there was no way to avoid the inevitable, but because he had been so close, he’d been so close to discovering the last piece of the puzzle, the final step to all this, and it was going to leave him again, he was going to be pushed away…

_No, nonono please, please wait for me. Don’t leave me, don’t let me go…_

The joker card flashed in his mind’s eye again, leering at him viciously. Jeremiah flinched.

_You need…_

_You need me…_

The answers were just out of his reach.

_Tell me._

_Tell me you feel it._

He didn’t register the moment when the chemicals closed over him in an agonizingly searing rush. He kept his eyes stoically open, staring up at the figure in the distance, wordlessly calling out for it to follow him, or to bring him back, or to do _something_ so he would have answers.

_I need you._

Everything was disappearing into the darkness again, collapsing around him. The memory was breaking into pieces again, and Jeremiah wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to gather them up. He remembered what had happened, remembered it vividly, all but the nameless figure staring at him from the edge of the catwalk above him.

_Please…_

_Please come back…_

Without warning, he found himself still on the ledge, this time staring up into the eyes again. For a moment, he couldn’t understand what was going on, couldn’t see anything but those eyes, but then he realized there was more this time.

He could see a _face._

_You._

_It’s you._

He reached up a faltering hand—part of him knew he wasn't really moving, this was all in his head, this wasn’t _real,_ but none of that seemed to matter anymore. The other boy’s expression changed, turned to a look of crushing regret, of _guilt,_ stronger than any guilt Jeremiah had felt moments before…and then it was gone again, and the hatred had returned, dark as a storm. Jeremiah shivered.

_It’s really you._

_You’re the one I’ve been looking for._

The boy glared at him, leaning closer, and Jeremiah kept his eyes fixed raptly on his face. Memorizing every tiny detail he could see, ensuring he would never let himself forget it again.

Then the boy spoke, and the words were terribly, agonizingly familiar. 

“You mean nothing to me.”

Jeremiah’s eyes widened, and he shook his head wordlessly.

_No, don’t say that._

_Don’t say that._

_You know that’s not true, you know it’s never been true…_

A stifled sob caught in his throat, and he didn’t know if it was real or just a lingering memory.

_It’s not true, Bruce._

Then it was all gone, vanished like waking up from a dream. Jeremiah was still staring at the playing card on the ground, and he was in the Arkham Asylum rec room. A familiar place, with familiar faces…grounding and reassuring in its own way.

But he didn’t think about any of that.

He only thought of the name that had seared itself into his thoughts like a brand, and as years of memories broke free from the confines his mind had trapped them in, overwhelming his thoughts and senses, Jeremiah repeated the name to himself until he was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would never, ever forget it again.

_Bruce._

\+ + + + + + + + +

Ripping the sturdy kevlar mask off his face, Bruce drew in a gasping breath. He leaned against the wall, chest heaving as if he’d been trapped underwater and only now had been able to come up for a breath of air.

For a moment, he’d let his imagination run away with him.

And in that moment, he’d been back on that ledge, eight years ago. Standing above that vat of chemicals, staring into a pair of desperate, laughing eyes.

Feeling that surge of energy that rushed uninvited through his veins, a thrill at the prospect of what he knew would be the definitive fight of their lives.

The moment that would end it for both of them.

_He said it was only beginning._

Bruce gritted his teeth, eyes snapping open again. What was with him today? He usually was able to control those memories, put them in their place before they overcame his thoughts entirely. But today, they seemed even stronger than before.

As if something was pulling at the corners of his mind, steering his thoughts in the one direction they didn’t want to go.

_Focus._

_You have to focus._

Tightening the cloths wrapped around his hands, Bruce looked up at the punching bag he’d been working with moments before.

_This isn’t about him. Not about us. It never was._

But even as he resumed his rigorous training he’d been working on for the past several years, sweat standing out on his face as he gritted his teeth in concentration, Bruce knew he was lying to himself.

It had always been about them.

\+ + + + + + + + + 

“Why didn’t you tell me.”

It was an accusation, not a question. Ecco backed away into the corner of the cell, up against the barred door. Her hands were shaking and she clenched them into fists. 

“I…”

“You knew.” Jeremiah stared at her, eyes bright in the darkness. The silver color they used to have had faded somewhat, but there was still an unusual colorlessness to them that made his expression all the more frightening. He gripped the edge of the bed with both hands, not trusting himself to stand on his own yet, but willing to try if his anger rose any further. “You knew the whole time.”

“Jeremiah…”

“And you didn’t tell me.” He leaned forward, still staring at her. His expression was dangerously calm, but she could see how he was trembling from suppressed anger. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t—”

“I am greatly interested,” he began quietly, eyes glittering, “in learning what may have encouraged you to withhold this particular information. You won’t hide _that_ from me, will you?”

She shook her head slowly, although she knew well enough she could never tell him the truth of that matter. Couldn’t tell him it was her own jealousy she had harbored for eight years toward that billionaire brat that kept her from saying anything. Jealousy, and the neverending fear that she would be replaced all over again, even after everything she’d done. After how she’d practically saved Jeremiah from a death sentence of neglect in this place…

She couldn’t ever say any of that.

_You have to tell him something._

_Anything._

“He’s gone.” Her voice was barely audible, but he caught the words and she saw his entire body tense up. 

“What?” The single word was barely more than a breath. 

“He left Gotham eight years ago.” Ecco said slowly. “As soon as we were connected with the mainland again, he disappeared. No one’s heard from him since. No one at all.” She shrugged. “They don’t know if he’ll ever come b—”

“No.” he broke in, voice rasping in his throat. His eyes burned like live coals, and Ecco swallowed nervously. “That’s not true.”

“I…I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“You’ve been lying to me this entire time.” he snapped. “I don’t know…” he drew a shuddering breath, “I don’t know why you would do that, and I don’t know why you’re doing it now, but you _are.”_

“No.”

“He didn’t leave.” Jeremiah’s tone was confident, but his expression had become desperate. “He would never leave me.”

“It’s been eight years.” Ecco twisted her hands together. “There hasn’t been a single indication that he’ll be back.”

“That’s not true.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you.” she said desperately. “I can…I can show you evidence. I can find proof that he’s really not here, and hasn’t been here for…”

“I don’t want proof.” he interrupted, still staring at her. “I want _him.”_

“Well, you can’t have him!” Her voice shot up, the words breaking, and she drew a shuddering breath, trying to keep quiet. If there were guards outside…"He’s gone, and you can’t have him.”

_You could never have him._

_You’re the reason he left._

Jeremiah shuddered as if he could read her thoughts, and his gaze fell, fixed on the floor. He said nothing, but she knew he was trying to process all the information that had cast itself into his already damaged mind, trying to come to terms with the one thing he never wanted to face. 

Being alone.

Being apart from Bruce.

Ecco found herself almost glad that he knew the truth now. It would give him time to come to terms with it, give him time to realize how futile his efforts at such a haphazard concept of being the ideal enemies, perfectly suited for one another, had been. 

And the maybe they could move on, forget about this. Or at least let it lie.

They were her unspoken hopes, and Ecco knew it was pointless in thinking them. They would never come true for her—for either of them, really—and now she was even less sure how any of this would go.

“He’s been gone a long time.” she murmured, heart still pounding in her chest so loudly she was sure he could hear it. 

Jeremiah looked up slowly, and Ecco shivered when she saw the lifeless, inert expression in his eyes. It was like he’d lost every bit of consciousness he’d been regaining in recent months, letting it slip through his fingers carelessly the moment he realized there was no reason to hold onto it any longer.

She bit her lip, wondering if she should pursue the matter or let it lie. She knew the dangers of crossing his temper, especially right now, but she couldn’t help the worried question that caught in her throat. “What are you going to do now?”

_ What are we going to do? _

_ Who are we going to be? _

“I’ll wait for him.” Jeremiah said tonelessly, avoiding her gaze and choosing instead to stare blankly at the wall behind her. His grip on the edge of the bed had tightened, and there was something fierce and dangerous smoldering beneath the empty look in his eyes. “If it takes him a million years to come home, I’ll still wait for him.”

Ecco's face fell. “Jeremiah…”

“As for your refusal to reveal the most important part of all this to me,” he said softly, giving her a scathing glance as her words died on her lips, “I won’t forget that.” His eyes had grown so dark that, for a moment, they looked almost black. His voice had dropped to a whisper, and Ecco was petrified beneath his gaze, unable to tear her own eyes away from his scarred face and the expression of pure, rage-filled betrayal that sent a shiver through her body. “I’ll never forget it.”


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh sorry it's taken me awhile to update this, guys!! I had writer's block with this chapter, but it's here now, so enjoy! :) The next chapter will be the last for this installment, and I'll hopefully get started on the fourth (and final) fic of this series soon after that, so stay tuned! <3

**Chapter Thirty-One**

_Two Years Later_

“We’ve fixed the spotlight.” Jim Gordon placed one had flat against the cold metal siding of the giant light on the roof of the GCPD precinct, smiling down at Barbara Lee, who was with him. The light hadn’t been switched on yet, and the sky above them was black, filled with cheerless grey clouds. A frigid wind whipped around them, lifting the coattails of the tan trench coat Jim was wearing. 

“What’s it for?” his daughter asked, staring at the seemingly unimpressive contraption, waiting for something to happen. “Does it light up?”

“It does. It’s to remind the people out there that we’re ready to protect them if they ever need it.”

_It’s almost like you want Gotham to be in danger again._

He frowned to himself.

_No. Just being prepared._

_Cautious._

Jim crossed to the other side of the spotlight, pushing the lever up until the bright beam sputtered to life. It cut through the night silently and sharply, and Barbara Lee’s eyes widened, impressed at the sight.

“Wow.”

“You like it?” 

“It’s cool.”

“I like to think so.”

They said nothing after that, only watched quietly, admiringly. Jim thought about a time more than a decade ago, when he had stood with Bruce Wayne on this same roof, just after the bridges had been destroyed and the future of the city had been uncertain, jeopardized by the lunatics who claimed Gotham as their own. 

Jim shook his head to himself, dismissing the memory.

That had been a long time ago.

On the rooftop of the apartment building behind them, Selina stood staring at the spotlight in silence, her eyes following the silver-white beam as it disappeared into the darkness of the sky.

Some unrestrained part of her wanted to leap down and destroy the thing piece by piece. Until the light flickered off and there was nothing but complete darkness again.

She thought maybe it was because she herself preferred to stay in the shadows. How she found comfort in that all-consuming blackness of nighttime, how it was a place to hide, to escape. The light was invasive, a predator. It stripped away the comfort she’d found in the darkness.

But somehow it almost felt like her anger went deeper than that.

She just wasn’t sure what.

\+ + + + + + +

“Guess ya don’t need me anymore.”

Jerome’s dark eyes watched his twin carefully from where he sat in the corner of the room, back against the wall and knees drawn up to his chest. Jeremiah gave him a numb, expressionless look.

“I don’t.” 

He’d never needed Jerome. And he never would. His brother was gone, would be forgotten in due time— _and what about you, are you content with being just as forgotten as him?_ —and Jeremiah couldn’t care less about him. 

_I don’t need you._

He turned away, staring blankly at the wall. His eyes were glazed over, barely lucid, and every spark of light that had ever existed within them was drained away. It had been like that for the past two years. Just an empty, pointless existence. Jeremiah sometimes wondered why he even let himself stay alive anymore. It was all for nothing, after all.

_I don’t need you._

He didn’t need Jerome.

He had only ever needed one person.

Because Jerome was not his antithesis. He was not the final piece to complete the puzzle. He had never mattered…in the grand scheme of things, he hadn’t mattered at all.

_I’ve never needed you._

_If I did, I’ve forgotten._

He could admit that to himself, at least. And anyway, did it matter? If he had forgotten about it, then it couldn’t have been that important. Whatever Jerome had done in the past…maybe it had brought them here, but that meant nothing. There was no point in looking back. 

The past held too many memories for him to return to it.

And there was no point holding onto any of the ones he remembered. There was no point to _any_ of it, really…it had been a long, long time since Jeremiah had possessed the ability to care about that sort of thing. 

When he looked back over to where his brother had been sitting, Jerome was gone. The cell was empty, and Jeremiah didn’t bother to look around and see if he was still there. He was gone for good now, and he wouldn’t ever return, not for any reason.

Not like he had in the past.

Not like he had in Jeremiah’s imagination.

He was _gone._ Nonexistent. There was no sign of him ever having entered or left the cell.

Jeremiah exhaled slowly.

Then again, Jerome never been there in the first place.

\+ + + + + + +

Ecco stared at the headline adorning the top of the crumpled copy of _The Gotham Gazette._ Her chest felt heavy, constricted, and she gripped the paper so tightly her knuckles turned white.

_No._

_No, he can’t._

_He can’t._

The paper had caught her eye as she’d been walking to work, displayed at the front of a newspaper stand at the side of the street. The shock that had numbed her senses in the moment the words had proceeded in her brain had been strong enough to make her freeze in place, staring helplessly at the words that she’d never hoped to see.

_“Bruce Wayne Returning To Gotham”._

She had barely heard her own voice as she’d quietly asked the man working at the newspaper stand for a copy of the _Gazette,_ and hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at it until she was nearly at work. She’d paused in front of the iron gates of the asylum, swinging in the bitter winter wind, and finally forced her gaze to the headline.

_He was supposed to be gone for good._

_He wasn’t ever supposed to come back._

\+ + + + + + + +

Sometimes it felt like his senses abandoned him entirely, the world fading out around him into a blank, merciful dark cloud of oblivion. He couldn’t even bring himself to fear it…there had been a time when he would have fought against the darkness with every bit of strength he had left, to the point of panic, but now he simply didn’t care. If the world decided to never come back, and he became lost in that darkness, so similar to the one he had struggled to escape for nearly eight years, then he would accept that. Embrace the idea, even. 

It wasn’t like he had anything here to return to. 

Anything left to live for.

_You waited for so long, for so many years, enduring everything that came your way..._

_And for what?_

Jeremiah knew well enough that there was no point wallowing in self pity, but, just like with everything else, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had waited so long, so _very_ long, and then the world had come crashing down around him when he’d realized it had been for nothing. 

Realized that Bruce—it pained him to even think about the name—hadn't cared enough to even stay in Gotham.

That he might not ever come back.

_He never cared,_ his thoughts would whisper agonizingly, and Jeremiah always hated when they did that, hated when they brought up unwanted things he’d rather push away, _He never cared about you, it was all just your imagination._

That was wrong, it had to be wrong, and Jeremiah would spend hours trying to conjure up the broken memories he still possessed to prove his own mind wrong. Bruce and him…they had been friends, they had been _best_ friends, and Jeremiah had been closer with him than anyone else in his life. 

There were memories he didn’t like to think about, but he turned to them anyway, if only they would prove the belief he’d clung onto for all these years.

Prove that Bruce had cared, once.

One particular set of memories had slowly come back to him over time, missing pieces here and there, but overall clear enough. He remembered, when he tried hard enough, an apartment— _penthouse? Someone called it a penthouse_ —and the seemingly endless stretch of time he had been trapped there, feeling his own mind deteriorating no matter how much he tried to deny it.

When Jeremiah thought about that, he almost wanted to laugh.

_So insecure. You thought that something as petty as sanity was the key to your success. To becoming someone. To having a life. Were you really that pathetic, that you’d believe something like that?_

No, he remembered now that there had been other reasons. Jerome, for instance. He knew Jerome had been part of the reason he’d so staunchly refused to give in to the fact that he hadn’t emerged from _that_ situation the same as before.

_Most_ of the reason, actually.

The memories were blurred beyond the knowledge that Jerome had tormented him to the point of nearly caving in and accepting the truths his brother had forced upon him over and over again, and beyond that, Jeremiah was never really able to distinguish any particular events of that time. It was probably a good thing, he decided…there were too many other bad memories he was able to remember without any trouble at all, and if his mind was choosing to repress particular traumatic events then, well, he wasn’t complaining.

He _did_ remember how it had ended, though.

He remembered how Bruce had finally found him. 

_Of course he did._

_He was always going to._

_Because he promised…_

Jeremiah flinched. On second thought, maybe it would have been better to simply have blocked out _every_ memory of that time.

The rec room hummed with the usual activity, and he resisted the urge to move, to crack his knuckles or turn to watch the card game going on out of the corner of his eye, or to do _something…_ not because he had any desire to rejoin humanity at any point in time—they were stupid and pointless and boring parasites that he couldn’t have any less interest in—but because, despite his apathy, he would still sometimes get restless. Longing for something to happen (hell, if someone killed him, he wouldn’t complain, at least it would break the monotony that he himself didn’t have the motivation to end) even if he knew it never would.

And then the orderly walked in.

It was one of the regular orderlies who worked in the rec room every Friday afternoon. He was one of the most nondescript people Jeremiah had ever laid eyes on, and today was no different. In fact, Jeremiah wasn’t even looking at his face, or at him in general. It wasn’t the orderly himself who made his heart seem to stop beating and his thoughts slam to a halt.

It was the newspaper he was holding, and the headline that it bore.

_Return…_

He could barely read what it said. His mind was barely allowing him to understand the words.

Jeremiah’s dark eyes followed the man, straining to stay focused on the headline, trying to process what it said in case his mind was playing tricks on him, in case this was some sort of cruel game someone was playing…

But no, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t. He wasn’t going to believe that.

Realization was slowly setting in, one piece at a time. Tentatively revealing itself until Jeremiah could grasp the monumental reality that was staring him in the face, quite literally.

He read the headline again.

_Bruce…_

_Bruce is…_

And just like that, everything came rushing back.

He remembered what it had been like that night on the catwalk in the chemical plant. He’d remembered it for awhile now, had been able to recall the motions they had gone through in his head, but he’d never connected to it. Somehow, anything he’d felt that night was disjointed, broken away from the memory itself. Compartmentalized, because Jeremiah knew instinctively that it would hurt too much to try and remember the thrill of that night when he knew he would never live it again.

But now…

Now he _could._

A delighted laugh rose up in his chest, and he gritted his teeth together to stay silent, knowing that it was more important than ever that he couldn’t jeopardize his position here. But part of him didn’t care, part of him wanted to jump up and race past the guards, through the doors of this horrible place, to run straight to the place where this had all began, the place that had caused everything that had happened during the past ten years. The place of his nightmares, and of his brightest dreams.

The place where they had last been together.

The memory was more vivid than it had ever been before. This time, he wasn't afraid to see it as it had really been. There was no need to repress his own thoughts, no need to shield himself from the truth. Because the truth was that he…that _Bruce,_ and he could go on saying, thinking that name for years and years and _years…_ was coming home.

_To you._

_For you._

He could hear the catwalk rattling beneath their feet. Their ragged breaths, sounding in unison of the silence of the place as they were locked in a deadly fight against one another, each intent on gaining the upper hand. Each loving every moment, igniting the fire that burned inside their chests, fed their darkest dreams, their desire to remain tangled in this eternal struggle for the rest of their lives. Bruce would never admit it, and Jeremiah had never gotten the chance to admit it aloud, but it was the truth.

It was always the truth.

And now…

Now they could truly begin.

His lips trembled as a smile he couldn’t suppress crawled at the corners of his mouth. His mind, which had gone numb and still for so long, after hearing that Bruce wasn’t coming back, that he had abandoned Gotham, that he might never return home, was teeming with new ideas, new plans, new schemes that came together with the seamless skill he’d always possessed. After all, he was an engineer. A builder. He could construct anything he put his mind to. He’d always been able to, for as long as he could remember.

Jeremiah shuddered with the pent-up energy that was coursing through his veins, the eagerness that ripped away the shroud of darkness that had covered his thoughts in oblivion. Everything felt new, felt _right,_ felt like his life was finally beginning again, after the years of waiting, years of anticipation for the day he’d always known would come.

_And you always did know. No matter what they told you, you knew it._

_You believed in him._

_Trusted him._

He blinked, memories crawling into his mind, back to a time that he could barely believe had ever existed. Back when they had been _friends_ —such a simple, shallow thing, so meaningless when compared to the wonderful animosity they now possessed, the burning hatred that fueled their need for one another—back when Jeremiah hadn’t been sure he’d ever see the other again, wasn’t sure Bruce was going to save him.

But he had.

_Because he’s always come back for you. Always._

He remembered them, together, the sound of gunshots and shouting and fighting right outside the door they had been hidden behind in the penthouse he’d nearly forgotten, holding onto one another, and Bruce whispering that there was nothing to be scared of, because there _wasn’t,_ and there never would be, as long as Bruce was there.

And that was _then._ That was when they were mere children, delusional in their shaky beliefs that the world would let them be happy. They never could be happy, that was a pointless illusion that had been broken down soon enough. But really, it was all right. Happiness wasn’t necessary, and neither was contentment. None of the things he had so strongly yearned for, back when he was an impressionable _child,_ made any difference now.

There was only one thing that mattered. Only one thing that made life itself matter.

That glorious hatred that was stronger than any love that had ever existed. Hatred that ensnared them into their intertwined destiny. The hatred that, he was sure, had brought Bruce back to Gotham. That was driving his every action, even if he didn’t know it. Even if he didn't want to acknowledge it.

And they could finally face their hatred again, could let the flames inside them rage up, and they could set fire to the city they had been raised in. 

The city that had broken them down.

_He’s coming home._

Even the memories of that time he despised, that time when those despicable people had trapped him and Jerome had nearly killed him—those memories were brighter now. Because they reminded him of the promise Bruce had made him, all those years ago, echoing through time inexhaustibly, and now it was finally _true._

_He promised you that he would never leave you alone._

\+ + + + + + +

_Even in the darkness…_

Jim’s hand ghosted across the cold curved metal of the spotlight, staring silently at the unlit glass, his reflection no more than a faint shadow. 

The newspaper was clutched in his other hand, the edges fluttering in the wind that howled across the rooftop. If he had let go, or even loosened his grip, the paper would have been caught up in it and lost to sight within moments.

He wasn’t sure what had drawn him back to this place after seeing the headline. Maybe because it was the last place he and Bruce had been their old selves. Before the chaos of the city being cut off from the mainland, the rising war that had rampaged through the streets, that night in the chemical plant that Jim wasn’t sure why he couldn’t forget…

Before they had become other people.

Well, Jim had stayed mostly the same. Or he liked to think so. But Bruce— 

Bruce _had_ changed. It was an inescapable fact. 

Jim suspected it was why he’d left.

He clutched the paper tighter.

_That’s about to change._

A small smile crossed his face as he continued to remember Bruce Wayne as he had been. Almost like a son to him. Jim wasn’t sure he would even be recognizable anymore, but then, it was Bruce. It would always be Bruce, no matter how much had been altered.

And he was coming back.

_In the darkness…_

He dropped his hand from the side of the spotlight, shoving it into his coat pocket as the wind picked up.

_There will be light._

\+ + + + + + +

“I saw the papers.” was Alfred’s greeting to Bruce when the latter picked up the phone. He’d been expecting the butler to call, but somehow, his unease at the one thing he’d put off for too long had overcome his sensibilities, and he felt fresh anxiety rushing through him as he spoke.

Wondering like always if he was doing the right thing.

_Does it matter? It’s too late to back out now._

“They latch onto news fast.” He tried to keep his tone light, steeping each word with a casual affectation he knew the butler would see straight through. It didn’t matter though…it was really for his own good, his own uncertainties that clouded his decision.

_You’ve made up your mind. Locked yourself into this fate. This is what it’s all been leading to, right? What you’ve spent nearly a decade reaching for?_

_It would be idiotic to turn away._

“Indeed.” Alfred paused, and Bruce stood up, pacing across the apartment to go stand by the window. He leaned his forehead against the cold pane of glass, shutting his eyes for a long minute. “But then, you know how Gotham’s been. Any news is big news these days.”

Bruce’s lips quirked into a small smile. “You’re saying my return isn’t worthy of the headlines it's been getting?”

“Of course not, Master Bruce, I only meant…”

“I know, Alfred. I was just teasing.”

Alfred was silent for a moment before speaking. “So it’s true, then? You’re really doing it?”

“Yes.” He stared out the window, watching the snow plaster itself to the fogged-up glass. The sky was grey, darkening into black as nighttime crept slowly across everything in a neverending shadow. Staring at his reflection faintly outlined in front of him when he caught the light in the window in the right way, Bruce pressed his lips together tightly. He’d been waiting for and dreading this moment with all his heart, and even now, as he was speaking the words aloud, he could hardly believe they were true.

“I’m coming home.”

\+ + + + + + +

_Two Weeks Later_

"I have an idea.” 

Ecco looked up sharply when Jeremiah spoke, her shoulders tensing. She’d been nervous around him ever since he’d found out about Bruce. In fact, he had barely spoke to her since then, and she’d begun to worry that he was going to relapse into a comatose state. But when the news of the billionaire’s return began to circulate, she’d see life creeping back into his eyes. Something eager and excited and impossible to suppress.

She remembered how he used to get that same expression on his face back before any of this had started happening. Back when she’d worked for him in the bunker and he’d worked out a new step in some engineering process, or he’d figured out a problem he’d been trying to unravel. The way he’d look at her with a smile breaking across his features like sunshine, and it had been those times that Ecco had very nearly thought he could love her.

It was almost harrowing, seeing that same look on his face now.

“What is it?” she asked slowly, and Jeremiah shook his head impatiently. 

“That’s not important right now. Anyway, I still have to work out the details.” He stared down at his hands, flexing them experimentally, and Ecco could practically see the intensity of his anticipation running through him. When he looked up at her, his eyes searched her face, and they were both silent for a long moment before he continued, “I'm going to need your help."

Ecco smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her heart twisted in her chest, and she thought, with a flash of bitterness, how she'd always longed to deeply to hear those words. How she had never pictured it happening like this, returning full circle, agonizingly flung back to the very beginning when this had all begun. She had known it would be inevitable…the two of them—not her and Jeremiah, no matter how much she wished it; no, him and the Wayne kid—were like opposite ends of a magnet, pulled back together through the years, no matter how much they knew they would clash, how much blood would be shed, how many lives would be lost due to their conflict.

Their hatred.

Ecco almost wanted to know what it was like, to be hated by Jeremiah. She knew he didn’t hate her at this point…she had jeopardized her alliance with him (and she hated calling it that, it felt so clinical and cold, so false compared to the friendship they used to have), but he didn’t hate her. He knew she was a valuable asset, he knew he couldn't give her up yet, and that was the only thing preventing her from facing his hatred. 

She wanted to know what it was like.

But she didn’t say any of that. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. And it wasn’t her job…her job was to work for him, to follow his orders, to be nothing more than a subordinate who could be tossed aside at any time he felt like he didn’t want her anymore.

_Expendable._

Her smile was brittle and false, as if she were wearing a mask, and Jeremiah noticed it. He narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing, waiting expectantly for her answer. 

And she knew what she would say. They both knew what she would say, before the words were spoken. What she would always say, because there was no other option.

No other option for them.

“That’s what I’m here for."

\+ + + + + + +

Bruce stared numbly out of the airplane window, the rooftops jutting out from the city shrouded in fog and darkness. His nerves had been on edge all day, a million uncertainties and regrets and fears all crowding his mind, but now he was too tired to think of any of them.

Now, all he could do was wait to see what came next.

He leaned his forehead against the glass, shutting his eyes for a moment. 

_It was always going to happen like this. You always knew you couldn’t stay away._

He had no idea what he would do once he was back. Selina…well, he hadn't even considered the possibilities there. She was certainly going to be furious, and Bruce didn’t know how he’d handle that. He didn’t know…

He didn’t know how any of this would work out.

He wasn't even sure what had prompted his return, really.

Of course, he’d known somewhere in the back of his mind that he would come back someday. Gotham was his home, and it was only a matter of time. But there were so many memories he had associated with this place, so many that he would rather forget _(but is that really true?)_ and it would have been easier to just stay away.

Yet here he was, and there really wasn’t an option to leave now.

_You're back for good._

\+ + + + + + +

He turned the playing card over in his hand slowly, eyes distant as he listened to Ecco go over the details of the plan for what felt like the millionth time. His head was aching, but he didn’t bother to interrupt her. His mind was occupied with other things, and she could have been rattling off facts about differential calculus for all he knew. He wasn't listening at all.

_You have to be something different this time around._

No one out there—Gotham had now become like a distant land in his mind, but he knew he would be able to reintegrate himself as soon as he left this hellhole, he was _remarkably_ good at adapting—ever really thought about him anymore. For that matter, there wasn’t really anyone in Arkham who bothered to look in his direction twice. He’d been cast aside once the crisis with the bridges and the anarchy through the city had been cleared up, his name erased from the papers and the news reporters refusing to speak it. Everything he’d done to be remembered was gone, it had been gone for ten years.

He had been forgotten entirely.

_Where did you go wrong?_

He knew the answer to that already. He’d known it ever since this entire thing had begun. It was what had separated him from his brother, what had separated him from every other criminal in this insane city.

Jeremiah had been forgotten because he was _predictable_. He had no problem admitting that to himself now. Really, it was the only thing he could do. There would be no chance of him being more successful this time around if he didn’t acknowledge where he had failed in previous attempts. He had been predictable, despite the enormity of his actions and the detrimental effects they had, and that was why they had pushed his name aside once things had calmed down. Gotham had no need for sane criminals, they had no need for orderly plans or level-headed (and he was _very_ level-headed, Jeremiah told himself) schemes. 

_You're going to have to change that if you want to do better this time._

He thought about Bruce. His best friend, the only person he’d ever really thought he understood. Bruce had told him time and time again how he wanted to save Gotham, how he wanted to become some kind of protector. It was one of the memories that remained perfectly clear in Jeremiah’s mind, and he mulled it over, eyes traveling down to the smiling face on the playing card he was holding.

Bruce wanted _order_ in this city. 

That was why he could defeat predictability. It was why he could understand Jeremiah’s actions before he went through with him, and why he could end up one step ahead. 

_If you want to be his equal…_

_If you want this fight to go on forever…_

He had to rebel against that.

_Become…_

Become something that Bruce couldn’t predict. Become something powerful enough that his friend would never be able to stop him completely.

Bruce represented order, he represented _justice,_ he was the living epitome of control. He wanted to control the city. To control crime. Control everything he…

Everything he couldn’t.

_That's what you have to be._

The corners of his mouth twitched upward.

His hand stilled.

_Unpredictable._

_A wildcard._

He looked up, consciousness darting back to the present as he studied Ecco’s face, half of him listening to what she was saying, half of him not caring in the least. An idea was forming itself in his mind, and in the moment, if felt much more important than any of the escape plans that she was apparently so fond of reiterating.

“Ecco?” 

She turned back, unable to suppress the way her heart leapt in her chest whenever he spoke her name aloud. Jeremiah smiled at her, still turning the playing card over and over in his hand.

“Once we get out of here and we have the commissioner’s daughter,” he sat up straighter, voice dropping lower until it was almost a whisper, “I’m going to need you to make a little detour stop at Wayne Enterprises on your way to the chemical plant."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always!


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